A Transformation in Five Acts
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: OP&M OP/E1 "You want to know something, Optimus Out-Of-Whose-Tailpipes-The-Light-Shineth Prime? Today I find myself wondering if it's worth it after all." Soundwave's death triggers a tiny change in Megatron. But what will peace require?COMPLETE & revised
1. Act I: SPARKS

_**Prologue**_

* * *

"We'll cover your retreat," the Wreckers' Captain bellowed above the shriek of laser fire.

"No foolhardy last stands, Springer," Prime rumbled to his impetuous lieutenant. "We've already lost the city. Don't add your carcass to the pile!"

"Just get everyone you can away from this hell-hole," the green Autobot replied, "And we'll rejoin you back at headquarters." He threw a quick salute over his shoulder, and disappeared into a boiling cloud of smoke.

"It's time to wreck 'n' rule, boys," he called out over his comm. The crackling slump of a stricken tower behind him almost drowned out the grim battle-cry. "Prime needs two or three more breems to get the wounded out of the warzone. Word is that Decepticon Command have gathered in the Central Square; and it's our job to keep them there, even if we have to start lobbing our own limbs at them. Meet southwest corner of the plaza in two kliks. Springer out."

There wasn't time for stealth; but then again, stealth wasn't exactly in the Wreckers' handbook. With the ululating yell that had frozen the spark of many a brave foe, the Autobots' last-chance squadron charged with all guns blazing into the smoking ruin that, a few joors ago, had been the court of Talus.

Megatron glanced up, frowning, but seemed unimpressed. Then he raised his weapon, and began methodically picking off unlucky bots.

Talus had been set up as a seat of learning and the arts, and as such it was long on delicate architecture, but short on fortifications. Roadbuster, never a mech who could hide behind a pillar, braced a shoulder against a glittering portico, and bore the entire thing clattering down before him. In the same movement, he fell behind its dubious cover to blast a hole in Ramjet before the white Decepticon could complete his transformation and take flight.

"Just goes to show how pointless it is to try and declare neutrality in this damned war," bellowed Broadside, who was covering his comrade's back against the Seekers' fire from the sky. "Shame, really. I always liked coming to this place."

"Why isn't Soundwave joining in the- _oooff!-_ fun?" wondered Topspin from high above them. Colliding with Thrust, the helicopter sent himself and the dark red jet careening into the polished face of a bronze skyscraper.

"Oh, you know Soundwave," grumbled Twin Twist. "Thinks he's too good to scuffle with the likes of us." He gave a wild crow of laughter, and surged toward the stolid blue bot. "I'll see if I can wake the old sneak up!"

"Soundwave! What's wrong with you!" Megatron's distinctive audio-grinding snarl sounded across the plaza. He'd turned from dispatching Topspin, to find his second lieutenant standing motionless in the path of Twin Twist's speeding drills. He shoved his Communications Officer out of the way, and blasted the oncoming Autobot into a smoking pile of scrap. "Wake up!" he shouted at the downed Decepticon. "You're not one I can afford to lose!"

Soundwave did not seem to hear. He rose unhurriedly to his feet without a word of explanation. His masked and visored face was as expressionless as ever as he took in the scenes of death and devastation which surrounded him. There was Starscream, diving through a flurry of laser-fire to pounce on two big Autobots dug in behind the fallen pillars of an ancient temple. He'd taken on more than he could handle, as usual; so there was Thundercracker, wheeling to follow him. Skywarp and two other flying Autobots were tangled in a three-way dogfight up above. And Megatron, as usual, was coolly presiding over all this chaos, standing solidly in the center of the Square, and choosing his shots with the kind of unflappable detachment which he only showed in the heat of battle.

The dark telepath bowed his head, and saluted gravely to his Commander. "I'm finished," he said, so quietly that no one else but Megatron could hear.

Then he walked steadily out into the fiercest of the fighting, and shut down.

"What's going on down there?" called Springer. "Every bot, report your status!" His attention was on Skywarp, on keeping the black jet from summoning the energy to teleport. But Megatron had stopped firing. And Springer wanted to know what the slag had silenced the big Decepticon.

"There's something wrong with Soundwave," Roadbuster comm'ed uncertainly. "He's just standing there in the middle of all this. And his optic band's not lit."

"Then shoot him, blast you!" Springer was exasperated, not least because Skywarp had just charred his whole left side with a swift burst from his thrusters. "What the frag are you waiting for? Hit him now, before he can eject Ravage or Laserbeak!"

As one, all Wreckers who remained online turned their firepower on the silent mech. His shell exploded in a burst of bright green fire.

Megatron stared, aghast. In fact, he had not moved since Soundwave's last, disturbing words. His face turned ashen as he watched the fire extinguish his best officer.

Behind him, with a sickening lurch, the tall golden tower which had lately borne the force of Thrust and Topspin's fall and a subsequent shot from Megatron's famous fusion cannon, surrendered to the force of gravity.

Ironically, it was Starscream who rushed in at the last instant, and pushed his hated Commander out of the tower's path before it crashed with terrible finality across the Square, and over the smoking remains of the dead Decepticon.

* * *

**Act I:**

**Sparks**

* * *

Optimus Prime fought down a burst of annoyance, as two heavy footfalls crunched in the cinders behind him. His scuffed fingers tightened on the grip of the gun which so seldom left his hand. Then he turned to face the intruder, glad he had not subspaced the weapon.

"Megatron. I hadn't expected to see you here this evening." Prime didn't bother to hide the anger, grief, and bitter exhaustion in his voice. "After all, you won today."

"If you can call it that," the Decepticon grunted. He clumped over to a low rise some distance away, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared out morosely over the burning battlefield.

Coolly, the Autobot Commander assessed his enemy's demeanor. Long experience had taught him to know the other mech well, and although he could see that this time, for once, Megatron did not intend to fight him, he was no happier for that knowledge. When not actually trying to kill him, the Decepticon usually made some kind of play for his allegiance. And Prime always preferred a straight fight.

Willing his opponent to go away and leave him in peace, the red mech turned his back, hunched his shoulders, and stared out over the ravaged remains of a once-beautiful city.

This sector had been one of the few areas on Cybertron which had escaped the devastation of war. He'd tried to preserve it, but really there was so little point in saving small settlements like this. Not any more; not when it cost so many lives. Prime valued lives over buildings, no matter how ancient or beloved the edifices. _I ought to have made them evacuate_, he thought. _It could have saved so many..._

He snapped to renewed attention, as Megatron began kicking aside the dross of battle, and threw himself heavily onto the cleared space. Prime huffed resignedly into his mask, and steeled himself for argument. But to his surprise, the Decepticon remained mute. Optimus shrugged, and turned away. His enemy's unusual reticence was a small mercy at the end of a long and brutal day.

The two opposing captains watched in silence as the sun sank in a red, fiery sky.

* * *

Night settled over the battleground, leaving only the glow of the fires burning below to flicker across the armor of the two Commanders. Long shadows stretched behind them, striping the ruined ground.

At last Optimus heard Megatron mutter something, and shift his bulky frame to a more comfortable position. "I never thought I'd lose Soundwave." The gray warrior's voice was harsh in the stillness of night. "Damned soulless mutant! What was he trying to pull?" There was a skittering shuffle followed by a sharp crack, as Megatron tossed a piece of scrap out over the edge of the hill.

Optimus had also found Soundwave's death unnerving. The unflappable mech had always seemed invincible in his cold, controlled self-containment. But the Decepticon lieutenant's death had been only one of many today. Prime kicked in frustration at an ornately formed pillar that lay broken on the ground beneath him. _Another day of death, _he thought. _One more day to add to the long, grinding __chain of millions like it that have gone before..._

"It's not that I trusted the prying slagheap, you understand," he heard Megatron mutter defensively. "It's that he had always been so... solid. I always felt I could rely on Soundwave."

Prime was surprised that the death of one of his officers would trouble the vicious mech so deeply. But he was even more shocked that the scarred old fighter would admit as much to anyone.

For a long moment, Optimus considered walking away and leaving the Decepticon Commander to his grumblings in the dust. But some part of him felt duty-bound to take up his proper role in this unexpected parley. In the end, the red mech squared his shoulders and replied simply, "I was sorry to hear about him. He was unique. But so are we all. I came here to mourn them all."

* * *

The Decepticon Commander sat taut and agitated, staring out over the burning wreckage below. Suddenly he slammed his fist into the ground beside him. Wrenching it out of the tangled wreckage in which it had become ensnared, he ground his jaws in a violent curse.

"He could have bested your soldiers easily!" he growled, jerking angrily at the bits of debris that had gotten caught up in his wrist linkage. "I don't understand why he just... shut down." He turned to look at Prime, hatred palpable in his fiery gaze. "Your Honorable Warriors all shot at him so _bravely_ as he stood there, frozen." Megatron shook his head repeatedly, as if attempting to reboot after a central processor glitch. "Soundwave didn't run. Didn't hide. Didn't even try to defend himself."

Of all the Autobots under his command, Prime had to admit that Springer and his crew were some of the least likely to show restraint in a battle. Death and killing was an accepted part of the job for them; the more Decepticons they eliminated, the better for their fellow Autobots. Nevertheless, even Springer had seemed shaken by the event. "It was creepy," he'd said to his CO at the debriefing. "It felt like he was giving up on _all _of us; not just on living."

The Wreckers' captain had winced at the memory of it, as he reported the death of the Decepticons' Third Officer. Now Prime felt an answering shudder within himself. It seemed an ominous portent that Soundwave should allow his own termination. He'd always assumed that the self-serving blue mech would still be standing after all of Cybertron had burned. But if even Soundwave had reached such a level of despair, was there any hope left for the rest of their self-destructing civilization?

He looked back at Megatron, and the Decepticon looked away, kicking viciously at the rubble. Prime could hear his jaws grinding together, could feel the strength of his malice, his frustration, his rage.

"You want to know something, Optimus Out-Of-Whose-Tailpipes-The-Light-Shineth Prime?" the big mech snarled, "Today I find myself wondering if it's worth it after all; if everything I've done..." Megatron gestured vaguely toward the burning battleground, "All this..." He broke off with an inarticulate, strangled sound. "Why am I even telling you this? I should be scrapping your sorry carcass, instead of-" He hurled another twisted piece of pockmarked metal out over the ruins of the city, and gave the cinders before him another halfhearted kick, unable to continue.

Optimus had never heard his adversary talk this way, had never heard these tones in his harsh voice. From any other mech, he would have assumed that he was hearing sadness, or possibly even regret. But from Megatron?

The Autobot stood very still, arms crossed, and tried to ascertain what this new ploy was. He felt completely at a loss. Silent and alert now, he braced himself against this unknown danger.

"Dammit, Prime, say something!" There was desperation now in Megatron's voice; an unexpected pleading that was terrifying in its strangeness. "You, who always have just the right words of Wisdom ready at a moment's notice... You, who carry the Ultimate Repository of Truth and Light to guide you in every situation..." The well-known grating voice was thick with sarcasm; but underneath the veneer of irony Prime could hear blind terror, and even a little envy. "Don't stand there gaping at me, you idiot! Can't you understand what I'm trying to tell you? I want to put an _end_ to all this! I want it... to just... stop..." His words faltered, as if the big mech had only now realized what he was saying.

Megatron collected himself, drew inward. Compact and cold and clearheaded once more, full of power, his harsh voice cut with bitter clarity. "I want this to be over, Prime. I want to end it." He looked up piercingly at the Autobot leader. "Now what do you have to say to that?"

Optimus felt as if he'd been jerked out of deep recharge by the emergency alarm. He'd dreamed of hearing words like these from Megatron. His enemy was giving him the first offering of peace that he had ever seen. But could he trust that offer? For the first time that night, Prime looked - really _looked_ - at Megatron. The Decepticon commander had always been skilled at disguising his motives. Prime sought the lie, watching for any trace of dishonesty. But he could find none.

What he saw instead was something that, in all his days as Prime, he had never thought to find on Megatron's scarred face: _Doubt._ For the first time, his adversary seemed unsure of himself, uncertain of his course. Experience told Prime that this was probably just another ruse to trick him into lowering his defenses. But concern for the other mech rose in his spark, despite all his attempts to remain distant and unaffected.

Cautiously, he walked over to his lifelong enemy, and sat down beside him. "Well then," he began. He paused, looked carefully again at the Decepticon Commander, and made his decision. He had to try. He opened the Autobot transmission channel, and spoke. "Autobots, this is Optimus Prime. As of this moment, I am initiating a general ceasefire. Stand down immediately! That is all for now. Prime out."

Megatron's grim mouth opened in surprise. Despite the heat of his previous declarations, the immediacy of Prime's call for a ceasefire had jarred him. He still seemed undecided, rebellious. But with Prime's blue optics blazing out at him in open challenge, he spoke at length into his own communicator. "Decepticons! This is Megatron. I have declared a ceasefire, beginning three nano-kliks ago. If any one of you so much as fires _one shot,_ I will see to you _personally._ That is all. Megatron out."

* * *

_At Autobot headquarters, Prowl began an exhaustive analysis of the data that had come in over the past few joors. He was searching for some hint as to whether Prime had been captured, or otherwise forced to send that message. He put the recording through several vocal confirmation protocols, to ascertain if the message had been faked. Prowl tried to hide his concern from the others around him, but inside, he felt close to panic. What could possibly have convinced Prime to surrender?_

_Upon receipt of Megatron's transmission, Decepticon headquarters broke into pandemonium. It was always dangerous to openly question their leader's decisions; however, without Soundwave to tattle on them, many soon began to mutter seditious words. Starscream was almost raving, his shrill voice now truly a scream. This complete suspension of hostilities was Megatron's most indisputable failure in eons, and the Air Commander was taking full advantage of this weakness; even going so far as to question their Great Leader's sanity._

_Yet even he stopped short of actual disobedience to the order. Megatron always made good on his threats._

* * *

_Leading the retreat on the battlefront, Ironhide swore as he received the ceasefire transmission. He'd had a perfect shot at Thundercracker. For an instant he was tempted to blast the blue Seeker and say later that it had been a regrettable reflex action. But he lowered his weapon, reluctance evident even in the creak of his arm joints. He would let the slagger live, even though the blue jet would surely just destroy something – or someone – else tomorrow._

_Thundercracker turned his back on the conflict zone and rested against a sheltering wall, as relaxed as if he'd been in recharge. The others around him were all jabbering loudly together in shared consternation. But all the blue Seeker hoped for, in the midst of this sudden chaos, was to have a few moments of quiet solitude, free from the usual Decepticon mayhem..._

On the hill, the two opposing leaders listened to the babble of confused voices coming in through their communicators.

They exchanged sardonic glances...

And switched off the noisy comms.

* * *

As the new ceasefire took hold, an uncanny stillness spread around the two tall mechs. The thud of artillery and the shriek of laser-fire was usually so ubiquitous that it had become a kind of security field which each Commander unconsciously drew about himself. Without the noise, they felt exposed. The enemies avoided each other's gaze, and found it difficult to break the silence.

"So," Optimus began at last, "What now? Are you really..." he hesitated to ask, worried he might ruin the miracle. "Are you serious about all this? You know that I-" He stopped, and considered his next words carefully. The future course of their race might well be decided by himself and Megatron this night.

"You know that I have spent my life trying to bring about a real and lasting peace. But without you, there can be no peace. Without you to lead them, you know that the Decepticons will fracture again into splinter rebellion groups, and continue to wreak havoc in whatever ways they can find."

Prime watched Megatron intently, trying to gauge his reaction to all of this. "Your soldiers will not willingly follow me. But they will follow you. You have," he grimaced, "A kind of... _forcefulness_ that I have never, um, _cultivated..."_ Primus forgive him; he'd been given the kind of moment he had only dreamed of, and yet here he was, making jokes! He quickly forced his voice back to a more serious tone, and poured his whole soul into the effort of reaching Megatron. "If you truly want an end to this war, it is at this moment in your hands to bring it about."

Optimus spread open his own hands. They were empty. "I have done everything I can, but it is not enough. Nothing that I alone am capable of can ever be enough. If we are to have peace, then you will have to work for it just as hard as I do." Prime knew that he was taking a great risk, putting things so bluntly to the devious gray mech. But he did not want to chance any misunderstanding. "How much do you want peace, Megatron?"

The Decepticon Commander did not reply. He sat utterly still, looking out at the smoking valley; but his optics glowed with an intensity that the watching Prime had never seen.

* * *

"_He turned off his locator beacon eight breems ago," reported Jazz. "But you know as well as I do how he sometimes wants some time alone after a fight's gone bad. Up till we got that message, I figured we'd just leave 'im to it..."_

_Prowl listened in stony silence, and shook his head heavily. "Prime may want his privacy," he said, "But I believe this situation demands that we intrude upon it. We'll have to organize a search."_

_Ironhide had returned to headquarters as soon as the ceasefire was called, wanting to find out what was going on. Listening now, he chuffed in frustration. The gruff old soldier knew his CO well, and he disagreed with Prowl's decision to go after him. _At least_, he thought,_I'll make sure it's not one of the over-revved young punks who intrudes on his solitude._ He stumped across the command center, and accosted the Second-in-Command. "Think I might know where to look for 'im, Prowl," he offered quietly._

* * *

_Thundercracker had no interest in participating in the bitter infighting taking place in Decepticon Headquarters. He took his rank for granted, and saw no reason to claw his way any higher in the echelon. So he left his fellow soldiers to their pointless arguments, transformed, and took lazily to the skies._

_He started out with the vague idea of looking for Megatron and asking what the slag was going on. But for the moment, he simply enjoyed the rare pleasure of flight in a quiet sky._

* * *

The Decepticon Commander wasn't certain what had brought him to this hilltop, where he found himself to his amazement talking ceasefire with Prime. But he was willing to be propelled by that unknown impetus for now. The unsettling vision of Soundwave's death, the terrible emptiness he'd seen appear behind the blue mech's visor, would not leave his mind.

Megatron had always shied away from too much examination of his own motives. From the solitary privacy of his own fortress-like quarters, as he listened to his soldiers carousing after a successful campaign, he had sometimes wondered if there were flaws in his core programming. But he'd never allowed himself to question very long. The Mighty Megatron dared not admit to any weakness in his own character, lest the cause which he'd built up so resolutely might come tumbling down around him.

But now he had to ask why he had done what he had done. Because the price of chasing after all his ravening ambitions seemed suddenly too high; and any possible reward not worth the bitter fight to reach it. Yet any other course was likely closed to him. All Megatron had ever sought was conquest, and he had long ago deleted any programming that did not aid in its achievement.

_Peace,_ indeed! If he chose to stop allowing his appetite for power to direct his every action, he knew that he would one day find himself stumbling blindly in a world he could no longer comprehend. Megatron was used to making his own certainty. The thought of facing a future for which he had no map unnerved him.

He turned to his sworn enemy, since no better source of sanity offered. Picking up a blackened length of steel, the battle-hardened mech twisted it heedlessly into loops and knots as, hesitantly, he spoke.

"Optimus Prime. You claim that I must be the one to lead the Decepticons to peace. That only shows how little you know me, you poor deluded fool."

When the metal had grown hopelessly tangled, Megatron threw it from his hand. "I tortured them, you know," he said. "I told them it would _toughen_ them." The Decepticon Commander snorted in contempt. "After I'd proven my absolute power over them, made them fear me above all others, I sent them out against your pathetic little Autobots to reap what vengeance they could for such humiliation. You wondered in dismay what drove them to such merciless cruelty. I bored rage into their bodies. I'm fairly certain I've driven most of them insane."

He grabbed a hunk of blackened slag, and crumbled it to powder in his fist. "What good would they be in a peaceful world?" he asked. "What good would _I_ be? Something breaks in the soul of a mech after a million thoughtless murders, Prime!" His optics blazed with the light of the fire that consumed him. "How can you possibly suppose me – _Me!_ The Cold and Ruthless Megatron – capable of 'leading them to peace'?"

He threw the charred grit violently from his hand; but coughed, enraged, when some of the dust blew back and was caught in his air intakes. "All we know, oh Most Noble and Upright Prime, all we're good for, is war, conquest, and destruction. For us, there can be no hope for peace. We have rooted it out and killed it – even within our very sparks."

He tried for his usual icy pride, but all that emerged in his voice was anger and disgust. And as he hurled another piece of wreckage, his actions spoke also of loss and regret. He despised everyone; that much was clear. The fact that he also despised himself was only now becoming apparent to both mechs.

Megatron chuffed angrily. This whole evening was ludicrous! All he needed to do was go down, throw back a few cubes of high-grade, recharge, and start again tomorrow. He could scrap a few 'Bots, and hope that satisfying that hate would feed the fire that drove him for a little longer.

The tormented gray mech turned violently to leave, and met the clear blue optics of his Autobot adversary. There sat Prime, hoping for the best while preparing for the worst: predictable as ever. Prime, who carried peace within himself, and wanted so desperately for everyone to share in it. Optimus Prime, with his foolhardy moral code and his ridiculous belief in the innate goodness of all beings. Optimus, who was everything which he, the mighty Megatron, lacked within himself.

With a curse, the Decepticon slumped back down onto his spot beside the Autobot Commander. He needed Optimus Prime, if he were ever to have any hope of bringing an end to the violent madness within him. He shot a twisted, rueful smirk across at the red mech; and shrugged helplessly. There were no words to convey his hatred. Yet he would stay.

* * *

Optimus watched his enemy wrestle with his thoughts. As he so often had before, he wished things could have been different. Despite – and perhaps in part because of – their long antagonism, he'd come to recognize many admirable qualities in his opponent. He thought back on the few instances when he and Megatron had been forced to fight alongside one another, when they'd faced universal threats neither would have been able to defeat alone. The Decepticon Commander's clarity of vision, strength, and resolve had always buoyed up and brought out the best in Prime.

Optimus occasionally envied Megatron his unencumbered confidence, since he often found himself questioning the wisdom of his own actions. He'd always been careful to hide his uncertainties from his fellow Autobots, believing that they deserved to have a leader in whom they could place unclouded faith. But that policy had brought with it a large measure of loneliness.

And Prime knew, to his consternation, that Megatron saw through his efforts to hide his thoughts; knew that his enemy understood the Orion behind the Prime. The Decepticon commander had often used that knowledge to get in under Optimus's defenses, both those he'd built up for his army, and those he'd erected to protect his own soul.

"You know," Optimus remarked, "I have fought you nearly as long as I can remember." The tall Autobot shifted a bit, looking for a more comfortable place in the wreckage to rest his weight. "Thousands upon thousands of vorns, and yet here we are, still going around the same track, forever coming right back to where we started." He huffed. "It's times like this when I find myself wondering what could possibly have prompted Primus to choose me to be the Prime."

Megatron snorted derisively and flicked another stone. "You too, eh?" he mocked.

Optimus laughed shortly. "I do my best to lead, but it never seems to be enough. I mean, slag, if it were _enough_, I'd have had _your_ spark in containment a hundred galactic cycles ago, and this war would have ended before it even began..." He shut down his vocalizer with an audible click, and found himself, like Megatron, picking up a piece of something to keep his hands busy.

After a while, the red mech raised his head, and peered across at the gray Decepticon. "Don't you ever wonder what it would have been like if we'd spent the last few million years working toward a shared goal, instead of at cross-purposes?" he asked. "Yes, we'd argue constantly, but we might just have been able to make something _great_ out of this poor, torn-up society of ours. We could have mended the flaws, and brought the various factions together, instead of just exacerbating the differences. You want to expand the power and influence of our race... Together, we could have made that influence _good for something_... Something other than spreading our war throughout the universe, at any rate!"

He looked down thoughtfully at the little scrap-sculpture he'd unconsciously put together while speaking. It was intricate, beautiful in a way, but lopsided. With a rueful quirk of his brow, Prime shook his head, and tossed it aside.

"I am more than willing to come to some new arrangement through which we could govern together," he said, "One that would benefit all Cybertronians alike. I have no desire to punish any individual or faction for their conduct in this war..." He looked out over the smoking city, and said with regret, "We are _all_ guilty in our self-destruction."

Optimus pulled a knee up to his chest, and propped his folded arms on it. When he spoke again, he was looking not at his silent opponent, but out over the burning world. "I am _tired_, Megatron. Tired of watching our race slowly obliterate itself in this endless, pointless, agonizing attrition." With each word, he gave voice to the despair he felt at the way their civil war had gone on so far beyond the point of reason.

"I want to stop dealing in death," he declared, "Before I forget how to live. I would be willing to do anything..." Optimus paused, considered, then pounded his fist into the ground beside him, "_Anything_ to make this work, right here and now! But I don't know how..." He chuffed. "After all these years of warfare, I don't see any way that we could ever fully trust – let alone forgive – each other." He glanced at Megatron. "I suppose that's the real tragedy."

A sudden thought pierced his mind, and he reeled as if from a physical blow. He felt the Matrix come to life in affirmation within his chest.

But Optimus, the most selfless Prime his race had ever known, rebelled.

Surely not! There had to be another way... There had to be a myriad of other ways! It seemed an unfair request to make of him, after he had already done so much...

And _Megatron_-! Surely he of all mechs would never be willing to go through with something that would lay him so bare, would so irrevocably bar any chance of retreat. Prime hunched away from the Decepticon, repulsed. No. It was impossible. Please, Primus, let it be impossible. It had to be impossible, didn't it?

* * *

Megatron wondered at the sudden fear he saw in the depths of Prime's blue optics; a fear deeper than any which he himself had ever been able to call forth. To his surprise and disappointment, the hardened warrior found that he enjoyed the sight far less than he'd always assumed he would. He cursed.

"Did Primus just grant you a vision of your own death, or something?" he sneered, poking his opponent's shoulder just to watch the good Prime flinch. "It's not as if dying is anything _new_ to you. You seem to try it every other vorn!"

Optimus shuddered, but did not rise.

The very air seemed tense; the Matrix hummed and glowed; and even though the artifact was locked away inside of Prime, Megatron could sense its awakening power around them. His old jealousies all came thronging to the forefront of his processor. He envied Optimus. Not that he necessarily wanted Primus to have a direct conduit to his soul – he'd rather go to the Pit in pieces, in fact. But he envied the red mech just the same.

As Megatron understood it, the Matrix gave its Carrier access to the knowledge shared by all the leaders who had come before, granting unto him a wisdom and a sense of history which Megatron could only guess at. It was the Sign, the mark of having been chosen to lead by Primus the Creator, the one Being to whom Megatron still, despite himself, unconsciously gave deference. That divine appointment meant that Optimus – that overgrown librarian – had never been faced the destabilizing uncertainty which a usurper of power – a rebel like Megatron – fought against every moment.

"_Megatron!"_ Prime's voice cut through his thoughts, pleading in a way the Decepticon had never heard. "I want you to tell me I'm delusional. Say that the very idea of a spark-bond between the two of us is ludicrous; that you'd never agree to it under any terms; that I might just as well say I tried, and go home now!"

Megatron rocked back on his haunches, threw back his head, and laughed until his vocalizer clicked. "Oh-ho-_ho!_ So the Pure and Righteous Prime has at last found something which he doesn't want to sacrifice! You're willing to do anything as long as it doesn't impinge on your own precious dignity, eh? Oh, I'm laughing, Prime; but only because you're so _pathetic!"_

Here was a wrench in the machinery, that was certain. The gray mech refused to say that Optimus was indeed a few circuits short on his cerebral board; but only because it was Prime who had _asked_ him to say it. It was certainly the craziest thing that he had ever heard. And that was saying something, since under threat of death and torture mechs who'd come under his control had often told him the wildest of stories in order to try and save their shells. He grinned malevolently back at Optimus, and enjoyed watching his opponent writhe.

The legendary spark-bond. He knew of it, of course – a pseudo-mystical merging of two souls that gave each complete and intimate knowledge of the other. No matter how much the Autobot seemed to begrudge that fact, Prime had a point. Such a bond would be an excellent means to understanding and unity.

But Megatron would see himself to the Smelter first. The Glorious Megatron would never open his soul to anyone, much less a stubborn, lily-white Autobot! He'd spent his life making himself unknowable, in fact; cultivating a practiced unpredictability that prevented others from ever divining his deepest thoughts. It kept the mechs around him nervous, and it kept him on his toes. Surrounded by enemies and traitors, the Decepticon Commander had never once let his guard slip.

Long ago, when his spirit first had broken in the gladiatorial pits of Kaon, he had quietly, stubbornly bolted it together on his own, confiding his distress to no one. He'd dared show no sign of weakness either then or afterward. After that first breach, he'd sworn that never again would he be forced to compromise himself. Never again would he be compelled to do something that was against his own dark principles, or be a pawn in someone else's game.

Megatron had destroyed worlds in his quest to weld the cracks across his hardened, fractured spark. And he had done it all alone.

As the eons passed, his obsessions had become a kind of mad black beast within him. Every waking moment, he had to fight to keep it caged. He thought coldly about the fear he'd seen in Prime's optics, and smirked. The red mech must be terrified of allowing all that raging evil into his own unsullied spark. No other bot alive could take in so much darkness without succumbing to insanity. Or so the gray mech told himself. He alone, the Mighty Megatron, was capable of taming the beast!

And yet the beast was far from tamed. He could feel the festering hole growing inside him as it slowly clawed away at his defenses. Each hour brought him closer to destruction.

Megatron allowed himself to wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to let Prime into his dark sanctum. After all, it wasn't as if he had anything to fear from the red mech. Optimus was insufferably good and kind. But it might be amusing to watch the Autobot's bright, clean spark be overpowered by the blackness in the Mighty Megatron's fiery soul. It would certainly be satisfying.

Or would it? He dismissed that question, afraid to examine it too closely. Prime was his enemy. He wanted him destroyed. End of story.

He glanced across at his opponent, and felt certainty drain away. He'd always told himself that Optimus was simple, deluded, weak. But occasionally, he wondered if he might be wrong in that glib assessment. Would he survive if he set out to overpower the Prime with darkness, but was instead subsumed by light?

He wasn't sure he wanted to behold all his own true soul without all the careful layers of self-deception he had built up around it. And he had no idea how he'd ever face Prime again, if he let the Autobot see the flawed mech hidden beneath the powerful persona of Megatron the Destroyer. But what if he could download all his madness, the raging black beast, even the emptiness it had left within him, onto Prime? What if he could be free again? It was a powerful temptation.

Megatron surged to his feet, and began pacing, shouldering aside some fallen scaffolding that barred his way. What good was his rage to him? Why had he chosen to let it remain and devour him for so long? Its fire drove him, he knew, but did he really believe that he was incapable of achieving his desires without it? No! He was Megatron! He was mighty! What need had he of a beast that clawed away at him and stole his peace?

He'd come here wanting to bring an end to things as they were. What if he could? Could he truly make his soul whole again? Was the slim chance that he might at last rid himself of that horrible countdown to insanity worth braving the fierceness of uncompromising light? Turning, he caught Prime's piercing, bright-blue gaze, and thought it might well be.

* * *

Optimus was indeed afraid of opening his soul to Megatron. Horribly afraid. And he hated himself for his cowardice. A spark-bond would put a permanent, inviolable end to any possible combat between the two of them. Neither would ever again be able to work toward the other's harm in any way, having become, even if for only a small moment in time, literally one. In theory it would, he admitted, be the best possible way to ensure mutual trust and forgiveness. (He remembered and cursed his own earlier words.) The bond could become an indissoluble foundation upon which to build a joint ruling partnership for the healing of all the inhabitants of Cybertron.

But Prime didn't know if he could go through with it. Traditionally, the spark-bond was a sacred union based on mutual respect, and a desire for a deep and permanent connection. It was very rarely entered into, and then only after long consideration, since its effects could never be undone. After a lifelong friendship, Prime had finally bonded with Elita-One... and then left her alone soon afterward. Alone, she had fought the ruling Decepticons on Cybertron for four million years, unsure if her bond-mate were alive or dead. He would never forgive himself for what he had put her through, though she had accomplished so much, and been more than brave. And then, when she had come so close to dying-! He shook his head, banishing the memory. Optimus knew the risks inherent in a spark-bond from painful experience, and had sworn never to enter into another.

Yet here he was, on a hilltop with Megatron, contemplating the unthinkable. The very idea of establishing a soul-deep connection with the mech whom he had dedicated his life to fighting, the mech responsible for the deaths of so many of his friends, the one being who represented everything he abhorred... It was unconscionable.

He did not know if it was even possible. The bond could not be forced, no matter how great the benefit might be. Sparks united of their own accord, drawn together by mutual desire. Optimus had never heard of a spark refusing to join with another, since no sane mech would offer his soul to someone he did not trust. Everything that Megatron was, was anathema to Prime. Wouldn't his spark recoil from such evil? In his heart, he hoped so.

The Matrix thrummed insistently within him, and he cursed himself for the covenant he'd made to always do the right thing for Cybertron and for his fellow mechs. _'No matter the cost,'_ he'd sworn. And so far, he had kept that promise. It had not been easy. But_this_...! Was this new sacrifice, not of his life, but of his very _soul_, truly what was required to achieve the peace he so deeply desired?

Optimus watched the Decepticon Commander's red optics blaze fire as he paced, noted the violence with which he cleared his own path. He wished suddenly that he had stayed safely back at base and taken an early recharge cycle tonight, instead of coming out here where anyone, _anyone_ might find him. But he was here, alone, where his conscience might ask impossible things of him, and no one would ever know about the choice he made but him.

The gray Decepticon turned to face him, and their optics met. And in that instant, the flare of hope that fueled the brightness in his enemy's gaze of was inescapable. In that uncompromising brilliance, Prime faced the hard fact that his single soul was a cheap price to pay, if it purchased the redemption of his entire race.

His pride broke then; and the soft sound of it in the still air was enough to move even Megatron. The gray mech came quietly to his side and sat down, calmer than he had been all evening. He also had made his decision.

He put a hand on Optimus's shoulder, and extended to him the first genuine friendship he'd ever offered in his lifetime.

* * *

_Ironhide knew that Prime often needed time alone to process things after a particularly costly campaign. He knew how the Autobot Commander liked to find a place where he could view the battlefield from afar; where he could ponder his decisions, file away the day's successful tactics, and analyze the failures. So he transformed, and drove back toward Talus. That morning, it had been a bastion of ancient strength. By nightfall, it had been reduced to a nearly impenetrable mess of collapsed buildings and twisted metal. Old soldier though he was, Ironhide was glad that the deactivated corpses had by now been cleared away. He clawed through the wreckage toward the long, low rise where he hoped to find Prime._

* * *

_As he circled aimlessly, Thundercracker found himself continually returning to the area of the day's conflict, even though the sight did not encourage him as he'd so often been told it should. He'd never quite managed to relish devastation for its own sake, though he knew most of the others did. He was glad of the excuse that the unexpected ceasefire offered him to simply fly, without being expected to shoot at anything. He was thoroughly enjoying the first quiet night in vorns; and he'd almost forgotten that he'd set out to look for Megatron._

"_One more sweep," he thought, "And then I'm outta here."_

* * *

Prime usually found Megatron's touch repugnant. The sly mech had used it more than once as a damnably effective weapon. When the red mech lay battered and broken beneath the Decepticon's crushing feet, Megatron knew – curse him! – that a gentle hand on his opponent's shoulder would likely break through any flimsy walls of self-protection the Autobot had maintained. That persistent shudder in his tactile sensors undermined Prime's mental resistance, forced him to listen as Megatron sought with cold logic to turn him from his cause. He hated it. He hated it because it had almost broken him.

But now, to his surprise, the black hand on his arm felt more like a lifeline than a trap. Wide-eyed, Optimus found himself clasping it in gratitude. He'd recognized the surprising gift of friendship in its outreach.

The two mechs sat silently together for a long, long time. One by one, with tiny clicks and whirs, taut servos powered down from battle readiness: the first tenuous overtures of peace.

Optimus spoke up at last, his strong voice unusually tentative. "Megatron?" he said, "Do you really think-?"

Megatron frowned, but never turned his gaze from the burning wreckage spread below them. If he backed away now, he'd forever prove himself a coward. If he took this offered chance, he could either win his own freedom or destroy the mech who opposed his conquering rule. Either way, he stood to gain. It had been many vorns since he had faced a truly intimidating personal trial; perhaps it was time to once again test his mettle. Besides, he thought, it wasn't as if he had anything he really _valued_ to lose.

"I think..." he huffed, "it's worth a try."

He turned to Prime, and rubbed his hands together theatrically. "You'll probably go insane; I'll probably become some struttless little worm of a bot, but by the Pit, let's give it a shot and see what happens! I needed some excitement today!"

Optimus was a little shocked at the other mech's flippant response. But as he thought about it, it made a kind of sense. "Megatron," he asked, "Have you ever- Do you know what you're getting into here?"

Megatron shrugged dismissively, trying to cover his unease. "Of course not!" he retorted. "Do you?" He met the Autobot's optics, and snorted. "Of course you do. That interfering little pink femme, what's-her-name. You two are so devoted it makes me sick!"

Optimus wondered in sudden panic about Elita. He hoped she would understand. He wanted to reach out through their bond and give her a quick heads-up about what was going on up here, but to his everlasting chagrin, he had never been skilled at spark-to-spark communication...

"Why should I have ever tried it?" Megatron's rough voice jerked him back to the present. The Decepticon was trying to project his usual fierce sarcasm, but the facade was less convincing than he would have liked. "I've never given a _scrap_ about anyone I've ever known," he snarled. "Besides; think about it Optimus, who would ever-" he broke off, waving a mute but eloquent hand. "Who could ever... love... _me?"_

"I could." The response was automatic, unbidden. Yet as the words left him, Optimus knew that they were the absolute truth. "I truly think I could, Megatron," he said, surprised.

The gray Decepticon was silent. Then, very quietly, "I know," he replied.

There was a long, weighty pause, as the very air seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the crackle of faraway flames, and the tiny shifts and plinks of settling charcoal beneath the heavy mechs.

"Well..." said one.

"All right," replied the other

The two ancient warriors, leaders of their opposing factions, knelt to face each other.

"This is... awkward." began Optimus. The Autobot Commander was deeply embarrassed. He knew how ridiculous the two of them must look: preparing to enter a sacred spark-bond even as they slipped and skidded in the debris left from their latest battle. As he met the fiery gaze of his opponent, his fear returned full-force; and Optimus began to tremble.

Yet as he reached out to steady himself against the dark form of his lifelong enemy, he felt to his astonishment (and, admittedly, relief) that Megatron was also shaking. The gray Decepticon grinned wryly at him. "My goodness, aren't _we_ brave!" he jeered.

Suddenly Prime began to laugh. He threw back his head and guffawed, feeling the release of tension spreading through him from helm to toe. "Megatron, my old nemesis," he chortled, "We must be the two greatest idiots to whom Primus ever gave life!"

Megatron drew back in shock. Had the Autobot already lost his mind? But in the face of Prime's infectious laughter, the battle-hardened gladiator also began to chuckle. This whole situation was ridiculously funny. The chuckle grew into a deep, healing laugh that started small, then coursed a cleansing path throughout his spark and servo. "Slagging Primus," he retorted. "He'll probably turn away to hide his face in horror. And I suppose that if he does," he added in a renewed paroxysm of glee, "We'll be thrown from the planet in the cataclysm."

"...At which point, all of my panicking will have been for nothing!" Optimus rejoiced.

The two mechs threw their arms around each other in a laughing, untroubled embrace. With fears subsided, they opened their chestplates, unlocked their spark chambers, and offered their souls – past, present, and future – freely to one another.

A soft, falling hum thrummed faintly in the air as optics dimmed and unneeded systems shut down. Between the silent, inert bodies, two life-sparks glowed and pulsed: one blue, the other red. The two bright orbs danced skittishly away from one another; but again and again, they were drawn together by a kind of magnetic force. They touched; and there was a blaze of incandescent light. Like two joining drops of quicksilver, like lovers after a long separation, the two sparks melted gladly into one another, until their colors were subsumed in brilliant white. When the energy flare subsided, there was only one brightly pulsing ball of clear light dancing in the darkness between the empty shells of Optimus Prime and Megatron.

* * *

_A flash caught Thundercracker's attention as he circled high above the city. He flew lower, curious. Some kind of light seemed to be pulsing down there amid the wreckage._

_He flew in still closer..._

_Stalled half-transformed in midair, as he finally comprehended what his optics told him..._

_And crashed headlong into the side of a building._

_He did not return to consciousness for a long, long time; and when he did, he was alone. His duty brought him trudging reluctantly back to base, where he would relay only the bare facts of what he'd seen. Afterward, he refused to discuss the particulars with anyone. Blaspheme it though they would, Thundercracker knew the thing he'd seen was holy._

* * *

_Climbing the rise over Talus, Ironhide was startled by a burst of white fire, and immediately sought cover from what he could only assume was an attack. After a while, when nothing further occurred, he began moving cautiously toward the source of the still-burning light. What could be causing such a phenomenon? Working his way through the metal wreckage so that his silhouette would not be too visible, he approached the glow with care. When at last he was close enough to see, he peered around a large, leaning pillar..._

_And gasped._

_Ironhide watched dispassionately as Thundercracker tumbled inelegantly to the ground nearby. The battle-worn old veteran could feel nothing but sympathy for his enemy._

_After a long moment, he turned to go quietly back down the way he'd come. With a last astonished glance over his shoulder, he activated his transmitter. "Uh, Prowl?" he hissed. "This is Ironhide. There's, uh... there's been a development..."_

_He shook his head in wonder. Once again, Optimus had managed to surprise him._


	2. Act II: HELMET

**Act II:**

**HELMET**

_**Scene i**_

* * *

As time pressed down on him, Optimus found himself measuring the rusted, dusty room in units of Megatron. The restless gray mech paced its sides so often, that the Autobot had memorized the number of steps his old opponent could make along each wall. Nine strides across, and fourteen along its length, with a ceiling that was 1.2 times the height of the two tall mechs at its peak; the room had seemed ample enough when first they had arrived here. Now Optimus fretted at confinement with his longtime enemy. And Megatron raged and fought against it like a caged Nebulan Tigrus.

They'd come to this abandoned warehouse immediately after their bond, and forbidden all their clamoring subordinates from entrance to this hastily-chosen sanctum. Prime hoped that a few orns in seclusion would be enough to give them both the time they needed to adapt to their new relationship, and to plan their strategy for uniting all of Cybertron under their joint rule.

But ever since the spark-bond, Megatron had grown increasingly uncommunicative, his temper more volatile, his mood more bitter. Prime watched him with a growing sense of sadness.

His own spark churned, as love and hate fought for supremacy within his soul. But at his core, Optimus had always believed in the basic decency of all mechs, even the one against whom he had fought for the majority of his existence. And the proud and wounded soul that he had taken into his own had only strengthened that belief.

Now though, as he watched his new brother strive to adapt, Prime felt uneasy in spite of himself. Was it, after all, asking too much of _any_ being to change as much as Megatron was trying to do in this short time? Was such comprehensive revision of a mech's personal parameters even possible? Prime worried that Megatron might not be able in the end to abandon his hatred and his lifelong pursuit of vengeance. He feared that he and his reluctant soul-mate might not be able to hold onto their fragile dream of peace.

Usually, Optimus refused to contemplate what might happen if Megatron could not, in the end, find his way in the new world they had agreed to form together; for to even face the possibility of such a failure made his own spark ache. If Megatron foundered now he would almost certainly die insane. His loss would signal an immediate descent into anarchy for their race. And his loss would mean an endless, terrible grief for Prime.

Optimus shook himself out of such negative thoughts. He refused to give up on Megatron, refused to relinquish his longstanding belief that there was more to the old warrior than madness and destruction.

* * *

_The morning which followed the declaration of the ceasefire dawned a terrifying red. Before anyone recognized the seriousness of what was happening, an energy storm the like of which no one living had ever seen lashed down upon the planet. Lightening struck constantly, and a corrosive rain sent mechs everywhere scurrying into whatever shelter they could find. A few were seriously burned before they could find safety._

_And then the earthquakes began. The whole surface of Cybertron buckled and groaned. A few spooked mechs swore they could hear a moaning from the depths, as of some monstrous being crying out in agony. The command centers of both factions were inundated with distress calls, as more and more mechs were trapped, injured, or just plain terrified in the abrupt, inexplicable cataclysm. "Why," they cried, "When we have finally made a real attempt at peace; has Cybertron turned on us?"_

_Startled by the unpredicted ferocity of their planet, Shockwave sent a carefully-worded priority pulsewave to Jetfire, and the two of them hurriedly assembled a team of like-minded scientists and assistants from both factions. They then began a desperate, scrambling effort to find out the cause of the planetary breakdown. The lives of all depended upon their finding some answers._

_On the second day, after exhaustive research in a hastily pulled-together laboratory, they offered their conclusions. The general ceasefire seemed to have effected Cybertron itself, not just the mechs who cowered on its torn and ruptured surface. The planet, they said, was entering into a healing crisis of its own - a crisis on a global scale. The sudden cessation of warfare seemed, ironically, to have thrown the planet into chaos. Over countless millennia of being continually bombarded, their world had come to a kind of set-point in which cataclysm was the norm. Peace, it seemed, was driving the planet crazy._

_Jetfire's team believed that the whole of Cybertron was now engaged in a frantic effort to cleanse itself; and it wasn't being too gentle about it either. The almost-constant earthquakes, the scientists said, were attempts by the planet to heal the gashes in its battered surface which had opened during the years of warfare. The residue of countless battles, which until recently had roiled unceasingly in the upper atmosphere, was now, they said, being gathered up and vomited onto the cringing heads of Cybertron's inhabitants. Mechs unfortunate or foolish enough to be caught out in the storms faced lethal lightening strikes, and a chemical rain that ate through their armor and disrupted their internal systems. Only in a dire emergency would anyone emerge from hiding and risk exposure. _

_Already some uneasy alliances and even a few uncertain friendships had been struck across the factions, as mechs from opposing armies had been thrown together in struggles for survival all over the planet. But most of them were simply biding their time, quietly hiding out until they could figure out where things now stood, and the new lay of the land. Above all, they wondered what their leaders were doing. They waited for the word of command._

* * *

Outside, the storm lashed the walls of the tumbledown storehouse in which the two Commanders had taken refuge. The tired old building shook with the buffeting of the wind. Occasionally, with a nerve-wracking thud, some heavy object torn loose in the gale would slam up against its side.

Optimus had gradually become accustomed to the sounds, and he paid them little heed. But as a tremendous thump shook the floor only a few meters from him, he jumped up, startled. Apparently, Megatron had picked up their one bench and hurled it across the room in his frustration.

Abruptly, Prime decided that the time had come to abandon his policy of patient waiting. Tersely ending his briefing with a startled Prowl, Optimus closed his communicator, slapped down a stack of datapads, and walked across to his bond-brother.

"What's grinding your gears, Megs?" He knew that using the nickname would anger the other mech; but getting Megatron angry had so far been the only way he'd found of getting him to talk.

Megatron whipped around, and stabbed a finger at Prime's chest. "You." Punctuating each word with a 'clank' as his finger jabbed Prime's chestplate, he growled, "You and your high and holy way of thinking. It's like a virus. And I'm becoming infected with it. By the Pit, I wish I'd slagged your aft when I had the chance!"

Prime deciphered the outburst as well as he could. Trying to sound calm and unconcerned, he asked the pacing mech, "So, what 'thinking' has got your servos so jammed up now? Feeling the need to strip yourself down for spare parts, and donate them to the empties, or something?"

Megatron froze, his optics blazing fiercely. Prime unconsciously clenched his own fists as the Decepticon set his feet and raised his hands in belligerent defense.

"Actually, I do feel that I ought to get rid of... something," Megatron admitted grudgingly. "But I don't see why the slag I should have to do it!" he added, grinding his jaws.

"So... you're thinking it's finally time to give up that fluffy petro-rabbit you cuddle with while you recharge?"

The big mech snarled in sudden rage, and Optimus saw that his teasing attempts to pry information from his opponent had gone too far. He backed away a step, raising his hands in a gesture that was both placation and self-defense. The spark-bond might make it theoretically impossible for either mech to ever again bring harm to the other, but Megatron's murderous glare convinced him that the Decepticon wouldn't hesitate to test that hypothesis.

"I'm sorry," Prime said gravely. "I have no right to make light of what you are going through. I'm just trying to understand, Megatron; to find out how I can help you... if indeed I can help at all. I do not want you to have to find your way alone." He paused, and his gaze dropped to the overturned bench. "Neither of us should have to do _any_ of this alone," he murmured sadly.

Still angry, Megatron glared at Prime, his hands balled into fists. "So now you claim that making cheap cracks is your way of trying to _help_ me?" he snarled.

Optimus shrugged. "As you well know, my perception and decisions have never been perfect."

He extended a hand, a peace offering. But looking into the face of his longtime enemy, Prime felt momentarily overwhelmed by all the obstacles they had yet to overcome if they were indeed to have peace. He pushed down his doubts, and said firmly, "I need you to be willing to talk to me, Megatron. There are a whole lot of things that need sorting out now. I had hoped that we could work through them together. I need your advice. The time has come for you to take your place in this new world, if that is still what you want."

Megatron's fists began to unclench. He knew that Prime was right.

Optimus dropped his hand to his side. He'd known the other mech wouldn't take it, but he'd wanted to make the offer nonetheless. "We need to be able to trust each other, Megatron. Please," he entreated as he turned away, "Please don't let all this... everything we've done... come to nothing."

Prime picked up one end of the battered old bench, righted it, and dragged it resolutely back to its place against a crumbling, dirty wall. Then he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and allowed himself a moment of frustration.

* * *

After a time, Megatron slouched across the room to where Prime sat, flopped down beside him, and threw his arm across the bent backrest. "All right," he grunted, in conscious imitation of a beaten prisoner. "I'll talk."

"What's bothering you?"

Sighing melodramatically, Megatron made an attempt to speak the thought that had taken over his mind. But there was no way to say it without sounding ridiculous. Barely audibly, he muttered, "I think I have to get rid of my helmet."

"Oh?" Optimus shifted a little, uncertain how to go on. "Is it still so important to you then?" he asked.

Megatron huffed resignedly. He loathed being so forthright, even with Prime, to whom he still couldn't quite believe he had allowed access to his innermost self. His particular difficulty would seem so small and foolish, once he put it into words. He hated the idea that it was possible for him to struggle so desperately with such a seemingly insignificant thing. It made _him_ feel small, and he hated that. But feeling foolish was even worse.

"You slagging _know_," he grumbled, "How this scrap-eater's helmet has always served to remind me why I do everything I do..." He broke off. "Everything I _did,_" he corrected himself angrily. He pounded his fist on the old, dented armrest, and flakes of ocher enamel fluttered to the floor. "I wanted to destroy you all. I _hated_ you." His belligerent voice sank to a whisper, "Now it's all I can do not to hate myself."

Prime nodded. "Mmmm." There was really nothing further he could say.

A sudden flood of bitter words poured out of Megatron like a system purge. "I made _one_ decision, took _one_ step, and as a result I find myself required to be a completely different mech." His voice rose with his increasing desperation. "But I don't even _like_ the mech I'm supposed to be now! And I can never go back! It's not as if being the old me was any more enjoyable, but...Slag it all-! Autobots! I'm... _helping... Autobo__ts!"_ The Decepticon Commander fought for control, settling his gaze coldly upon his former adversary. "I'm a traitor to my own cause, Prime," he said flatly. "Now I'm wondering if I've even betrayed myself."

"Hmm," said Prime.

"Optimus, if you make one more noncommittal, 'yes-I'm-listening' grunt like that, I swear I'll rip your cortex from your- _Aaaugh! What the frag was I thinking?"_ Megatron pressed his hands frantically to his head, as if attempting to stop it from flying apart. "Slaggit, what is there for me to do, if I can't tear you to pieces?" Desperately, he jumped up, and began smashing anything that came to hand.

Optimus left him to it. A few more holes in the walls wouldn't matter much, and the rudimentary gear that they'd brought with them could be replaced if necessary. He hoped that if Megatron were allowed to vent all of his pent-up frustration - even if the method he had chosen of doing so was somewhat destructive - the results might be worth a few pieces of damaged equipment. As if in response to that thought, the chair which Prime had been occupying earlier came flying toward his head. Prime dodged it distractedly, and watched it smash on the floor beside him.

* * *

Megatron's rage did not abate quickly. But when he punched a hole so deeply into the wall that his hand was caught, he was at last compelled to stand still. The Decepticon stared down unseeing at the appendage he was unable to tear free from the tangles of wiring and jagged metal. Then with slow determination, he began to beat his head against the cold, hard surface in a relentless, unforgiving rhythm.

Optimus felt each weary blow as a physical pain within his spark. It was horrible to watch any being self-destruct like this. He'd thought he'd been acting so selflessly, in agreeing to the bond with Megatron. But he saw now that any risk to himself had been laughable by comparison. Prime, to his surprise, had gained a friend. Megatron, he was beginning to worry, had lost himself.

Hoping that his actions would not rouse the Decepticon to further anger, the Autobot picked his way through Megatron's wake of destruction, to stand beside his former enemy. The gray mech did not even seem to sense the arrival of his old opponent. Optimus reached out, and began loosening the twisted metal from around the huge trapped fist.

"I was a fool," Optimus admitted in a low, troubled voice. "A selfish, blind fool." As Megatron's freed hand dropped listlessly to his side, Prime lowered his head in shame.

"I ought to know better!" he chided himself. "I was so worried about my own precious soul that I didn't give much thought to yours. I never made certain you understood the consequences, or made preparations for your transition. Now it seems that there is nothing I can do to help you, nothing to make any of this easier for you, not even a way to make amends." His shoulders sagged as he watched the big mech dully beating his head. "I am so very, very sorry, Megatron."

He meant every word, but knew that his feeble apology would mean nothing, mend nothing, undo nothing. Frustrated by his own helplessness, he reached out, and gently turned the heavy gray head away from the wall. Blue optics stared ruefully into blank red ones dulled by despair.

"I can't change things back to the way they were before," the Prime began. "But I offer you all I have to give: myself, my friendship." With a little shrug, he extended his hand for the second time that evening. "Take it if you need it... Brother."

The hulking gray mech stared bleakly into steady blue optics. He turned back to look at the wall, at the dents he'd made with his own head. He looked down at Prime's extended hand. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out, and grasped hold.

Optimus dropped his gaze, and pressed the palm of his free hand against Megatron's scarred chest. It was the first time he had fully acknowledged their bond.

To his surprise, he saw black fingers brush his own red chestplates in return. "Hello, Brother," the gruff voice said. "Greetings from a fellow idiot."

"Idiot?" replied Optimus, relieved. "What did _you_ do?"

Megatron laughed bitterly. "I thought this would be _easy_." He snorted derisively. "I believed that I could dump all my slag onto _you_, and that would be the end of it." He leaned his back against the wall, and slumped to the floor. "I thought you could heal me somehow," he said fretfully. "I thought I'd come out on the other side all shiny and new and... and happy..."

"I imagine it was quite a disappointment to discover what a silly glitch-head I am, then," Prime replied dryly. "We both were fools," he declared. "Have been fools, are certainly now fools, and will most likely continue to be fools in the future..."

"Shut up, Prime," the Decepticon growled. He shoved the tall red mech aside at the knee, so that he stumbled, off-balance. "Your rambling speeches are going to be the death of me!"

"I'll stop speechifying, if you'll get up off your aft and act like a civilized mech," said Prime, optics twinkling.

"Civilized? When the slag have I ever been _civilized?"_ But the gray warrior reached up, and allowed Optimus to pull him to his feet.

* * *

Kicking aside a little of the mess he'd made, Megatron walked away across the room and flopped back down onto the comfortable old bench. He spread his arms across its back, and propped one foot on his knee. Optimus, following, sprawled out on the floor, and let his head fall to rest on the seat beside his old adversary. Now that the tension had finally broken, both mechs realized that they were exhausted. The past few days had taxed both mental and emotional reserves, and it was a relief to finally relax.

Optimus dimmed his optics, and ran an internal cooling protocol. Finally he asked, "Back before you decided to incorporate yourself into the architecture, you were saying something about your Primus-forsaken helmet. Why do you think you need to get rid of it?"

Megatron chuffed. _"Primus-forsaken,"_ he repeated. He looked down at Prime. "We were, you know. Forsaken. Primus had nothing to do with that place..."

Optimus remembered what he had seen while bonded with Megatron's spark: the supercilious Senator's curt dismissal of all those hapless, lowborn mechs who'd labored in the old C-12 mining outpost... The brutal silencing of that nameless one who had spoken out... The riot... The slaughter... What hurt Prime most about the memory that he now shared with Megatron was the prominent Autobot symbol displayed arrogantly by the guards as they brutally put down the workers' weak resistance...

"I saw," he said sadly. "I remember. I wish-" he broke off.

"I _know_," cut in Megatron impatiently. "But it was before your time, so just process it and let it go." He groaned, leaned back, and stretched out his legs to loosen a few stiff joints.

"I swore I'd never forget, never forgive." The old warrior tapped his fingers restlessly against the long black fusion cannon mounted on his arm. "I clawed my way through the fight pits. I made myself stronger, harder, bolder. Built myself an army. Declared war on those I thought had condoned everything that happened back there." He clenched his fist, remembering. "I was determined to wrest the power from the fools who did not know how to use it properly, and make them all pay. And by the Pit, _I made them pay_."

Megatron looked down at his fist. Slowly, he let the hand fall open. "I've spent my life seeking more and more power," he murmured, "Because I never wanted to be talked down to again. I forced them to respect me. I refused to let anyone tell me there was anything I couldn't have, anything I couldn't do..."

The big mech's vocal purge seemed to have wound down, so Prime finished the thought. "And you kept your old mining helmet as a reminder; a focus-point to pilot you on your Death-To-All-Autobots course. Only now..." He paused, grunted, and shifted to a more comfortable position. "Now you find yourself spark-bonded with the leader of those same Smelter-spawned, Primus-cursed Autobots, and trying to bring an end to the very war you started... Well, mostly you," he amended judiciously.

"My oath of _'Never forget! Never forgive!'_ is proving quite an obstacle," said Megatron with a mirthless grimace, "Since it seems I'm going to have to break it if I ever want to feel whole again..." He looked down with a twinge of envy at Prime, lying there so relaxed and peaceful. In a barely-audible hiss, he added, "Slag me for an empty ditch-crawler, I'm _trying..._"

"I do see it, my friend," said Prime quietly.

Megatron smirked. "Yeah, well – If I want to do more than try, I'd better get rid of this helmet."

The Decepticon sagged, looking exhausted. Looking up at him, Prime wondered idly if the big mech had been getting the full recharge he required.

Megatron turned, and cocked an eyebrow at the red Autobot on the floor. "Believe me," he sneered, "I realize what a pathetic, exhaust-sucking excuse for a mech I am, to be so bound to an old work helmet." He scowled, and shifted restlessly. "But if I get rid of this wretched thing, I'll be letting go of my last link to the familiar path that I carved out so carefully for myself..."

Optimus made no reply. It seemed to him that he owed Megatron some kind of response, but he was suddenly so very, very tired. As usual, his good intentions were being thwarted by his own weakness.

In the long silence which followed, Megatron's churning engine gradually slowed; and at last he allowed his head to loll back against the bench. "I thought I could start over," he whispered. "But I don't even know where the start point is. And not even the Illustrious Optimus Prime can find it for me." The Decepticon Commander dimmed his optics, and acknowledged his own fatigue at last.

"The one thing I can promise is that you won't have to look for it alone," said Prime. "But right now..." With an effort, the Autobot pulled himself up to a sitting position, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "If I don't go recharge soon, I'm going to go into stasis-lock right here, and it won't be pretty. Let's finish sorting all this out in the morning – If we get a morning, that is. I've never seen a storm like this." With a creak and a groan, he hauled himself upright, and stumbled off down the hall to his makeshift berth.

Megatron signaled the lights in the room to shut down, and sat for a while in the darkness, red optics glowing. Then he too shuffled off to his bunk for a few hours' recharge.


	3. Act II scene ii

_**Scene ii**_

There was no real morning. The clouds of charged particles in the atmosphere blocked out almost all available light. Optimus slowly booted up his systems, and bemoaned the freakish weather. He was increasingly worried about the other mechs he knew were stuck out there, in places much less sturdy than the one he occupied himself. It was long past time, he thought as he listened to the tearing wind, to pull together a more effective rescue force.

He walked over to Megatron's berth, hoping to start organizing the recovery and repair of all the abandoned Cybertronians. He knew that any such rescue work would only be possible if members of both factions worked together, and he wanted Megatron's help in its planning.

But the big mech's bunk was empty. So was the large central room where they worked. He searched the disused rooms and hallways that ran toward the back of the building. No Megatron. Hmm.

He wondered if he ought to be concerned; this was the first time the big mech had left their small sanctuary, and the weather outside was downright life-threatening. But he knew he couldn't pad after Megatron like a worried minder; doing that would certainly drive the old mech to rebellion. He'd have to continue to have faith in him, and let him make his own choices, he decided.

So Optimus got himself some energon from a storage tank, and looked over the datapads full of work that he'd left unfinished the night before. When he felt a bit more alert, he opened a communication channel.

"Prowl, Jazz, Jetfire: this is Prime. How are you all on this lovely morning?"

He watched as the holographic images of the heads of his three friends shimmered into the air, grimacing at his attempt at humor. He returned their wry greetings with a self-deprecating salute.

"First of all: Jetfire, how are things with your team? Is everyone still managing to get along?"

Jetfire's image faded, and was replaced by scenes of the scientists working at their various stations. So far everyone seemed intent on their work, and Prime was heartened to see Hook hand some samples to Perceptor without even a second glance.

"Shockwave never reveals anything unless he has to," said Jetfire, returning to the screen, "But so far he seems more willing than most of the other Decepticons to make an honest attempt at working peacefully together. It's possible he's responsible for keeping the others in line. But frankly we're all so busy right now that no one's had any time to start any arguments or recriminations. I don't think you'll have anything to worry about with this bunch, Prime. Most of us tend not to worry about faction when we're so deeply involved in a project."

"That's what I had hoped," replied Prime, relieved. "Jetfire, I'll be relying heavily on you and your, um, old connections with the Decepticons. We are, all of us, going to have to find ways of working together.

"Which brings me to the matter I wanted to discuss with you, Jazz and Prowl..."

"Lay it on us, Prime," the saboteur grinned.

"How well is our global monitoring system holding together? Can we still locate all of our mechs, keep apprised of their status?"

The two Autobot lieutenants glanced at each other, hesitating. Gravely, Prowl answered, "Much of the system is still functioning, but not all. We've lost the signal in several key areas. Last we knew, we had mechs trapped there; but now we have no way of contacting or monitoring them. And we've been getting more and more distress signals. I don't have the resources to get them all out, Prime." The white mech looked as unruffled as ever, but his voice betrayed the depth of his concern.

The Commander nodded. "That's what I am hoping to change today, Prowl. I suggest we organize a rescue force-"

"But-!" interrupted Prowl.

"-Made up of both Autobots _and_ Decepticons," Prime continued smoothly.

"But _Prime!_ Don't you think it might be a bit too soon for a stunt like that?" asked Jazz, while Prowl gaped, his blinking optics refreshing rapidly.

"Too soon or not," said Optimus, "We can't leave those mechs out there any longer. Many of them have been holed-up since the ceasefire began, and they've got to be running low on fuel-" For an instant, Optimus dimmed his optics, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I want you to go after everyone," he told them, "No matter what their faction. Get them _all_ out; get them _all_ to safety. If we're going to make this work, if we truly mean it when we say we want a lasting peace, then we've got to stop classifying the Decepticons as the enemy. And the sooner we start, the better.

"So Jazz: I need you to coordinate the work with any Decepticons who are willing to help with this attempt. Jetfire, you and Shockwave offer him any insights you have on which mechs might be able to work together without killing each other. Prowl, I'm afraid I'm still going to have to leave most of the overall logistics to you. I'm still... tied up here. It's taking Megatron a little longer to settle in to his new role than I think either of us had anticipated..."

Suddenly, none of the mechs seemed able to meet each other's eyes. The subject of Megatron was still an extremely awkward one.

"I will offer one suggestion," continued Prime, trying to ignore the shifty silence. "I'm sure that, despite the ideals we hold, there are a few Autobots who are feeling dissatisfied with this peace agreement."

"You're not thinkin' of anyone specific, are ya Prime?" interrupted the ever-cheerful Jazz. "Like oh, say, Grimlock and his band of misfits, or that crazy little slagger Cliffjumper?" The saboteur grinned, his visor flashing dangerously. "I've got a list! It's a long one!"

"The habit of blasting Decepticons might prove a hard one to break for some," Prowl agreed wryly.

Prime chuckled in spite of himself, but when he spoke, it was without mirth. He knew what he was asking. "I suggest that the top mechs on that list of yours be the ones you send out on the most dangerous missions. If they're genuinely worried about saving their own sparks, they might not have much energy to spare on kicking skidplate. The same goes for any Decepticons who participate in this effort. Send the berserkers out on the 'death-defying' missions. They'll get a buzz from the danger."

Prime picked up a stack of datapads, preparing to sign off. "Keep a close watch on every team, my friends. Megatron seems to have put the fear of the Pit into them, and it's kept them from breaking the ceasefire so far. But no matter what happens, you get... them... all... out," he growled, jabbing a finger to emphasize each word. "We've lost more than enough good mechs over the last few million years; and I don't want to lose anyone else, now that we have a real chance of ending this Primus-damned war."

"My, such language, Prime!" gasped Jazz in mock horror. "A little of ol' Megsy's programming get uploaded into your systems?"

Prowl looked shocked at Jazz's brazen (and worse, flippant) reference to the recent bond. Usually such bondings were not spoken of; and if they were mentioned, it was with reverence. Jetfire's usually calm face showed that he'd also been deeply offended.

Prime set down the datapads he'd been holding, and hissed a hot sigh from beneath his faceplate. He'd known that a link between himself and the Decepticon Commander would cause a terrible confusion in the ranks; and although it would be very hard for him to discuss it, he supposed that it was good that Jazz was brave enough to bring it out into the open and force everyone to deal with it directly.

"It all uploaded, actually," he said bluntly. Optimus spread his palms against his desk, straightened his shoulders, and told himself sternly to go on. "It's all right to talk about it," he assured his lieutenants. "We're all going to have to get used to a lot of new things in the next few cycles, and I'm fully aware that this... bond" the habitually reticent mech forced himself to speak the word, "Is going to be one of the hardest ones to accept."

Though Jazz still wore his cheeky grin, the light behind his visor was soft as he watched his Commander. He'd worked with this Prime too long not to know what it had cost his friend to be so forthright. Until now, the red mech had always been quick to squelch any speculation about his private life.

"While we're on the subject of Megatron," Optimus continued reluctantly, "If any reports come in on our old enemy, relay them to me, would you? He disappeared this morning. I don't think it's anything to be concerned about yet," he continued hurriedly, as he noticed his lieutenants' horrified expressions, "But if anyone hears anything, let me know..." He leaned back and sighed. There was so much to do! "I think that's enough to be going on with for now. Good luck to all of you. Prime out."

* * *

Megatron cursed the weather creatively, profanely, and profoundly. He dodged his way between lightening bolts toward a nearby short-range shipyard. The storm was making flight extremely difficult. It was also making it dangerous; the Decepticon had already been given a few new burns.

He wanted desperately to avoid prying eyes and curious questions. He didn't want to explain or justify his mission to anyone, but the old bluff and bluster just wasn't coming to him as easily as it once had. So he had determined to steal a shuttle, instead of chartering one.

As Megatron came within view of the hangar, he broke into a new volley of curses, this time directed at the few miserable mechs who still braved the storm in order to kept a dutiful watch over the motley assortment of space-faring vehicles. What the slag were they doing out here now? Shouldn't they be snuggled away in some hidey-hole? Who did they think was going to come out in weather like this to compromise their precious transports?

Who besides him...

The gray mech flew in close enough to recognize the guards as low-level Decepticons, and growled more profanities under his breath. He would have preferred a few Autobot groundpounders. These mechs would be able to fly after him, if he was spotted.

Formerly, he would have blasted them into oblivion without giving it a second thought. But lately, he'd found himself, like Prime, stubbornly determined not to lose a single mech more if it could be helped. Stealing a ship was one thing, but shooting down lowly mechs just to save his pride was another. So using whatever cover was offered, but trusting mostly to the weather to camouflage him, Megatron sneaked quietly past the miserable, huddled guards.

He hot-wired the shuttle which he thought had the best chance of slipping away unnoticed. It was smaller and lighter than he would have preferred, but it would have to do; the larger, sturdier ships were much nearer to the guards who cowered, still unaware of him, under their makeshift shelter. Keeping close to the ground until he was out of their sight, he slowly accelerated away.

Almost immediately, however, Megatron began to wonder if he ought to have slagged the guards despite his high new ideals, and taken a sturdier ship. The storm was playing merry havoc with his guidance system, so that try as he might, quite a few lightening bolts seared through his ship as they sliced across the sky. He could hardly see; his optics could not adjust quickly enough between the burning white flashes and the pitch darkness between them. Each bolt that strafed his tiny shuttle sent energy surges throughout the ship's systems, and by extension into his own. The pain when that occurred was intense, for his buffers could not protect him from the voltage. But Megatron was paying more attention to the flickering readouts on his rapidly-failing instrument panel, as he fought his bucking, plunging ship.

At last, he burst free of the tumultuous atmosphere into the relative safety of space. In that vast, starry darkness, the Decepticon Commander pushed, pulled, kicked, and cursed the battered craft toward the nearby C-12 outpost. He arrived there just as his last readout screen cracked, sent up a feeble trail of acrid smoke, and went dark.

His landing wasn't pretty. One engine had been blasted away by a bolt of lightening soon after takeoff; and as the sensitive guidance systems had one by one been melted into oblivion, flying the ship became more like trying to balance on a falling sheet of scrap metal. His "landing" took out not only the landing gear, but most of the shuttle's under-plating as well.

As the ship finally ground to a stop in a cloud of dust and debris, Megatron smiled grimly to himself. He'd been more concerned than he liked to admit that the bond with Prime might have weakened him somehow. But he'd made it here alive. It seemed that he still had the touch.

Disembarking, he clapped a hand against the blackened hull of his stolen vessel. The proprietors of the shipyard would hardly have recognized the little craft. But the gray warrior gave no thought to the return journey just yet. The test that faced him here worried him far more than the dilemma of how he was going to get back to Cybertron ever could.

* * *

Slowly, unwillingly, Megatron raised his head to view the ancient mine. Ever since that fateful day, he had always found reasons to avoid this place. And from the looks of things here, so had everyone else.

Once, the C-12 Outpost had been rich: a bustling hive teeming with toiling laborers who extracted the raw energon crystals, processed the ore, and shipped the clarified fuel down to the hungry planet below. Abandoned in haste after that first disastrous rebellion, the mine had been left to fall into ruin. Now the site was nothing but a gaping maw, with nothing to devour but itself.

Like crooked teeth, remnants of the old outbuildings could still be seen sticking up here and there. Drooping lines that had once run the ancient machinery now hung crazily over the pit, reminding Megatron of strings of sputum in the mouth of some hideous organic creature.

Wishing he was somewhere else, the Decepticon Commander walked into the pit.

When the ground he'd been standing on gave way, Megatron activated his thrusters just in time. He watched, as an entire gatehouse fell down into the opening mouth of darkness beneath him, to be consumed.

"Idiot!" Megatron glanced back in apprehension to see if his ship had fallen in with the tumbledown building. But the old dock on which he'd crash-landed still looked relatively sound. He pressed onward then, more carefully than ever, to do what he knew he must.

The old miner remembered his intended destination all too well. But he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get down to the place. He didn't even know if it was still there. Treading with unaccustomed care, Megatron made his way gingerly into the mine.

After several close calls during which he was nearly crushed, entombed, or bisected, he allowed himself to question whether it was really necessary to go to all this trouble just to get rid of a helmet. But he was so close now. And he craved the satisfaction of a worthy end for his talisman.

At last, pushing through a dragging door hanging crookedly in a rusted wall (and dodging a few falling beams as the ceiling collapsed behind him), he found himself in the familiar wide, open space which he had been seeking. The workers' assembly hall was remarkably unchanged, considering its precarious location in the heart of the old mine. He stepped warily into the room, not knowing if the rust-streaked floor would bear his weight. It creaked and trembled, but it held.

Megatron raised his head to look around him, and saw ghosts on every side.

There, lopsided and crumbling, was the podium at which, so long ago, the Senator had stood up to give his oblivious, patronizing speech. Once, the ruin of tangled beams at the front of the room had been a raised rostrum, from which the huge, impassive sentinels had watched. And there, indistinguishable from the rest of this wrecked chamber to any other living mech but Megatron, was the spot where that single crazy, loud-mouthed bot had stood up to it all...

Megatron wondered if, in the rust beneath the layers of debris, that long-dead mech's life-fluids still stained the floor. He looked unconsciously at his own hand, and remembered the first shock of seeing it slicked and dripping, after he'd pounded it through the body of a captain of the Cybertronian Guard.

Reverberating across his mind, the Decepticon Commander began to hear faint echoes of forgotten sounds from the past: the feral clamor of the crowd... the sickening thunk of his axe as it buried itself in the Senator's shoulder... the guard captain's panicked shout of _"__Fire at will!"_... the tumultuous, heaving screams of trapped and unarmed mechs faced with pitiless blaster fire...

Megatron swayed, sickened in the queasy rush of memory. True, he had grown from an unknown laborer to a Commander of armies. But his thoughts were still as disordered now as they had been on that fateful day. He'd proclaimed a desire to bring equality. But his plans had quickly morphed into a more self-serving goal of personal domination.

For over a hundred thousand vorns, the Decepticon Commander had lived surrounded by death. He'd plunged ahead, splashed and caked and stinking of bled-out fluid, constantly pursued by an ever-increasing army of ghosts. How long had it taken him, he wondered, to cauterize his soul? When had he last felt anything at all, as he smashed through another mech's spark-casing, and raised his dripping fist in triumph?

The fire that burned within him had exploded into white-hot rage that day, and he had killed without mercy. He had become a murderer. But to what end? He hadn't come far, seeing as he had only ended up here at the beginning of it all, once again.

The gray Decepticon sank slowly to his knees; and with the same sense of dark ceremony which he had displayed in the arena, he lifted his hands (he was faintly surprised to see that they were unblemished by the too-familiar stain of purple mech fluid), and removed his helmet.

Then he leaned over, gagging, and purged; and the filthy splash of his bile was added to the layers of rust and slime around him.

He remembered what he had come here to do. But it all his efforts now seemed like nothing more than the pathetic thrashings of a loathsome, dying worm.

For how could he have dared to think that it was possible for Megatron to become anything but a destroyer? And what heights of arrogance had led him to believe that he could actually be forgiven? It was hopeless. He was broken. And some things could never be repaired.


	4. Act II scene iii

_**Scene iii**_

_During the long, dark course of the last three orns, Mirage had gradually come to accept the fact that he would have to die. He was resigned to his fate. He'd just never imagined that he would die from a slow bleed-out, in the dark, buried in a blasted sink-hole._

_A heavy truss was driven through one side of his torso and into the side of the cleft beneath him. From there, it extended up to what might charitably be called a ceiling: a mass of loosely-piled junk that, but for that one beam, would slither down into the broken cavern and crush himself, Windcharger, Gears, and Hound to scrap metal. _

_That first earthquake had caught the four of them unawares. Hound had barely raised his head in sudden alarm, when the ground beneath them had given way. In a confusion of snapping beams and buckling metal, the four bots fell, too shocked and frightened to make a sound. _

_That had been three days ago. _

_The pain, the long darkness, the constant effort necessary to prevent himself from sliding into the crack below, and above all the lack of energon, had dulled his feelings on the matter of his own death. Hound, Windcharger, and Gears had all donated some of their own fuel to give him the strength he needed to brace his body. But despite their sacrifice, he had begun to fade in and out of consciousness. He hoped that the others would be rescued before he slipped, and they all perished here together._

_Suddenly, a bright light broke through above them, startling them all into bleary wakefulness. Shakily, they raised their heads to squint into it. _

_Mirage heard the grating voice of one of his least-favorite Autobots call out, "Me got three – four live ones down here!" Sounding surly, an unfamiliar voice answered, "Wonderful. Let's haul their sorry afts to the shelter and get out of this awful weather! I'm never gonna be able to fly straight again!"_

_Sturdy cables were thrown down, and Mirage watched as his three friends were hauled out to what he hoped was safety. With a groan, he relaxed his wedged body, and prepared to let himself fall into the pit below. He couldn't seem to summon the energy required to explain to Grimlock that if a rescuer came down to pull him out, they would both die..._

_A soft pop sounded nearby, and there was a flash of purple light. At this, Mirage was able to put a face to the voice he'd heard. Skywarp. Death seemed almost welcoming by comparison. "C'mon, Mr. Big City," the black Seeker hissed close to his audial. "We wouldn't want that fancy finish to go to scrap, would we?"_

_Mirage tried weakly to protest. "The beam... the roof... all fall in..."_

"_Shut up, idiot," said the voice. "I'm not as dumb as you think I am. Now trust me and hold on, Fancy-Bot. I'm gonna give you the ride of your life!"_

_Mirage grunted as the Seeker reached under his arms, and locked his grip around his broken torso. He cried out as the beam scraped painfully across his chest, and the roof began to cave in..._

_There was another soft pop..._

_...And Mirage found himself out in the open, striving weakly to clear his intakes in a cloud of dust. A little distance away, a mishmash of broken metal was subsiding messily into the sinkhole that had trapped himself and his companions for four days. He looked up, and saw Skywarp's smirk._

"_What did I tell you?" gloated the black Seeker, as he dropped Mirage unceremoniously onto the ground a few feet below. "Ride of your life!"_

_Mirage had always been repulsed by Skywarp's brutish lack of manners. But he was forced to admit that the rough-edged Decepticon had not only saved his life, but that he was the mech who could have done so. "Thank you," he said shortly._

"_Don't mention it, my good 'Bot!" replied Skywarp in a mock-highbrow tone, then added with a growl, "Don't you evermention it..."_

_The motley group turned, and began making their way toward a nearby emergency shelter._

* * *

It may have only been a breem, but it might also have been half an orn, before a thought as clear and piercing as a beam of light broke through the blackness of Megatron's despair. In its brief illumination, he remembered an outstretched blue hand. One mech, at least, had forgiven him. The Decepticon Commander had often mocked Prime's stubborn belief that there was something good within the spark of every mech. Now he found himself clinging to that belief as to a lifeline. It might be just enough to keep him going for a while. Maybe.

But he hated the idea of depending on Prime for reassurance. He was determined to make his way in this new life independent of anyone else.

He scrambled to his feet, embarrassed to have succumbed to such weakness. His future might be one big blur, but at least he'd face it on his own two feet.

From the most ancient, primitive center of his spark, a whisper sounded. Out of habit, he shushed it sharply. But it came again, more insistent this time, and Megatron was forced to admit that he was hearing voices.

"_I believe in you. I always have."_

The gray mech hissed, chin lifting in defiance. He told himself it was only a thought, a voice in his mind. He told himself it had only been a random firing of neural synapses.

But he knew the voice. It was deeply familiar; part of, but separate from him; not a creation of his own consciousness. After a long hesitation, he shut down his optics, and let the primordial stillness seeping into his spark grow to fill him. This once, here at the beginning and the end, he would listen to what the Voice had to say.

"_You were not meant to be what you chose to become. I had hoped great things for you."_

That was certainly true. Megatron snorted. He would never be anyone's pawn.

"_You chose the way of my brother, the destroyer. In doing so, you allowed him to destroy you._

"_Now you have been given a rare gift: the chance to choose again. The chance to change your future._

"_Who are you?_

"_Who do you choose to be?"_

Megatron stood quietly in the empty darkness, as motionless as a monument. "Primus," he whispered, testing, _tasting_ the name in his mouth. He was intensely surprised that the ancient being would choose to speak to him. But he was not overawed. He had been angry at his Creator for far too long to retain what some mechs considered to be the proper respect.

He pondered the questions the Voice had posed.

"I want to be _me_," he said, finally. "I'm warning you, you may not always like it. I'm not _nice_, like your Favored Son, Optimus Prime. But I am strong. I get things done."

"_What is it that you want to do?"_

Megatron thought about this for a long time. After all, wasn't his whole problem that he didn't know the answer to that question?

There was, however, one thing he did know. It wasn't much. But it was significant.

"I don't want to be a murderer anymore," he said. "I'll be a soldier. I'll be an enforcer. Slag, I'll even be an executioner. But I don't want to be a murderer ever again."

"_That is a good start."_

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so!" Megatron's anger, never far beneath the surface, exploded from his mouth. "I've 'made a good start,' have I? Well, three cheers for the Mighty Megatron! But now that I've started, where do I fragging _go?_ I don't have a shiny Matrix like your Beloved Prime. Slag it all, if I do what I came here to do, I won't even have a fragging _helmet!"_ He clamped his jaws to stop the flow of bile. "My one true compass," he sneered, spinning the helmet between his fingers. "And I actually came here to melt it down."

He managed to keep silent, holding his acidic thoughts inside. But still his anger boiled. Their god had set them all adrift in the universe, and then gone off to take a _nap_. And now here he was, out of nowhere, expecting Megatron's obeisance. He swore. As far as he was concerned, the Creator ought by now to be used to disappointment. How dared Primus give his guidance to only one mech out of millions? What did he expect the others to do? _Guess?_ If so, why should he be so be dismayed that his precious creations had ended up trying to destroy each other? Didn't Primus realize that if he gave their lives no meaning, his so-called 'children' would have to invent some sort of meaning for themselves?

"_I did not set you adrift."_ The ancient, careful voice broke into the turmoil of his mind. "_I did not leave you alone. I sent a piece of myself with each of you, within your sparks. I can speak to each of my creations in the same way I am speaking with you now. But they so often refuse to listen..."_

"We don't listen because we don't _trust_ you!" Megatron almost screamed. "You hide yourself away in there somewhere; and when things get really dangerous, you expect _us_ to protect _you!_ You're nothing but a selfish puppeteer, playing mind games with your little toys. I hate you! You're such a fragging _coward!"_ Megatron's chest heaved as he tried to cycle enough air to cool the heat of his overwhelming rage.

"_It is true I do not know everything. I do my best with the knowledge I have; which, incidentally, is far greater than your own. I do what I must. I resist my brother. I am not a coward. By choosing the path of resistance to chaos, I have severely limited my own course of action. I did in some sense create you all to do what I could not, hoping that some of you would resist him with me..."_

Megatron sniffed. "Oh yes, very brave and noble of you..."

The quiet old voice continued, unruffled, "_You are jealous of the Matrix. But it is not a perfect guide. It is the accumulated wisdom of imperfect mechs, nothing more. I choose a Prime whom I hope will lead you to resist the forces of chaos and destruction. I hope to be able to guide him in that resistance - to influence him just a little - through the Matrix. But I can not control him. He makes his own decisions as best he can."_

There was a long silence during which Megatron perversely tried not to think of anything at all.

"_Do you know that I once considered choosing you to lead them? But with Nova, I had seen to my sorrow the results of choosing a leader who was too focused on expansion and power. Sentinel's scholarly compassion did counteract some of the ruthlessness of Nova's methods, but he proved too weak in the face of your own physical brutality. Optimus is, I believe, the best Prime I have found yet..."_

Megatron snorted, forced despite himself to admit the fairness of that assessment.

"_But just like all the others, he was unable to achieve a lasting peace. Watching him struggle and fail, I almost gave up hope forever. I think he could feel it. I could sense his fear, feel his despair..._

_"Now, this bond of yours has given me hope once again. Perhaps the two of you together can undo some of the damage which the forces of chaos have inflicted here. Together, you two are extraordinarily powerful... if you choose to be."_

Megatron was unrepentant. "Powerful," he repeated with a snort. "Oh, _yes._ But since, as you may possibly recall my saying, I now have no idea what to do with all my 'power,' what can you expect from me other than that I'll 'powerfully' ruin a lot of things? You tell me to choose my path. But you offer me no help in finding it. You leave me in the dark – the same way you've always left all of us... all of us except your precious Prime..."

His tirade was interrupted by the Voice of Primus within him. Its tone was unusually harsh.

"_You __lie__. You lie to yourself as well as to me. I leave none of you in the dark. You have always known the way to choose your path. It is easy. It is only you yourself who make it difficult. There are only two paths: the path of progress, and the path of ruin. It is easy to tell which one you have chosen, for there are always, always signposts. The second will lead to your own destruction – as you well know, for you have felt its decaying effects within yourself. The other- Do you not see that your own happiness and fulfillment only adds to my own? I may have created you for my own purposes, Megatron; but I have not shackled you to my desires! Now stop whining to me about flailing around in the dark. Any darkness you face is of your own personal making. Stop blaming others for the consequences of your own choices! If you want light, then step out into the light! Choose a path, and walk!"_

Megatron froze. He became suddenly and intensely aware of everything around him: the pulse of his own spark, the cycling mech fluid cooling his softly-whirring servos, the gritty rust on the shaky floor beneath him, the soft, ominous creaking of the ancient metal surrounding him. He was alone. Or at least, as alone as he would ever feel again. He cursed his spying Creator. Primus was worse than Soundwave had ever been for sneaking into his private thoughts.

With a harsh chuff of air from his vents, he stood. Moving resolutely up to the rickety old podium, the Decepticon Commander placed his helmet carefully, almost lovingly on its leaning surface. Then he backed away, and made a wry salute to the empty item resting there. Then he activated his thrusters and rose up into the air.

He raised his right arm, and aimed his fusion cannon precisely. It hummed as the charge rose to full, devastating power.

"I... _Choose,"_ he proclaimed, and released the pent-up blast of energy.

* * *

Optimus Prime was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on the minutiae of government restructuring. He'd never had the knack of diplomacy, and finding a balance in this topsy-turvy armistice was taxing his equilibrium to the utmost. He barely managed not to shout at Grimlock, who'd interrupted his work with an irate communique, before signing off and shutting down the holo-projector with a snap. His concern for Megatron was mounting with each reverberating crash of thunder, each tremor beneath his feet. Not even the dispatches detailing the successful rescue of stranded mechs gave him comfort, since they only served to remind him that his bond-brother was out somewhere in all of this, and that no one would be saving _him._ Prime began to mumble half-formed prayers to whatever powers might be listening.

* * *

It wasn't only the helmet which ceased to exist in the explosion. Megatron intended a much more thorough cleansing. The big gray mech punched upward through a tangle of falling roofbeams as the entire mine collapsed inward. Megatron watched it from above. His cold expression never changed as the twisted remains of everything he had spent his life fighting to avenge was incinerated in a tremendous conflagration.

He realized, too late, that he had forgotten about the remaining ends of ancient energon deposits still buried deep within in the mine. With a gyro-lurching shudder, the crack the mine had so long ago opened in the tiny planetoid widened suddenly into an immense crevasse. From its unknowable depths, a storm of white-hot energon was rising...

With a snort that was both gratification and defiance, the Decepticon Commander sped away, while behind him the entire asteroid burst apart into quivering, jagged fragments. He was left alone, out in the black immensity of space, to somehow limp home on his own.

It was an utterly impossible task. While he might have just enough power to make his way back to nearby Cybertron, it was preposterous to believe he could survive the journey through the planet's tempestuous atmosphere without a ship to shield him. But Megatron felt light, happy, free. He felt as if he were being upheld in a bubble of absolute safety. He knew without a doubt that, one way or another, he would make it back home. Home, to a ramshackle old storehouse, where a simple-minded red mech believed that he could change.

* * *

Prime almost failed to notice the tiny addendum attached to the latest report of system upheavals. But a few words caught his gaze. And when he read about the explosion of the minor planet on which the abandoned C-12 mine was located, Optimus cursed. Of course, he'd wondered if Megatron might try to go there. Before, Prime could have found a kind of justice in Megatron perishing in a fireball of his own making. But not now. Not when there had been so much to hope for...

His bonded spark twisted painfully, and Optimus fell to his knees. He wasn't certain whom he called to, but he hoped that some merciful Power might be listening. "Please save him!" he cried. "Don't let him be lost while he is trying to do so much good! Please let him come back safe... and whole..."

He felt a gentle hand fall lightly onto his shoulder.

"_Thank Primus! _You had me worried, Megs, you worthless piece of-" He turned. _"__Elita!"_

Still kneeling, he threw his arms around the femme, and let his head fall with a thump against her blessedly familiar body. "I'm so, so sorry sweetheart!" he whispered.

"I know you are," she replied. She reached down, took his chin in her hand, and raised his face to hers. Running a sly finger along his brow and down along his mask, she told him, "We've got a lot to talk about, don't we Orion?"


	5. Act III: HOME

**Act III **

**Home**

_**Scene i**_

_Starscream fumed. He pounded his fist against the locked door of what, up until yesterday, had been his private quarters. When he'd come out of recharge this morning, his first nasty surprise had been the realization that his null cannons had been removed. He'd stormed to his door to find and pulverize whomever was responsible for that outrageous violation, and received his second shock. His door no longer responded to his key. His quarters had effectively become his cell. How dare they? He was the Air Commander! By the Smelter, he was Second-in Command to Megatron himself! __How dare they__?_

_But the worst surprise of all came in a slow realization as the morning wore on. No one, not one of his so-called friends, had seen fit to disobey orders and set him free. He was still reeling from that the shock of it. How was it possible that every single one of the other Decepticons had been so duped by Megatron and Prime's absurd shenanigans? How could they possibly be willing to give in to this lunacy without a fight – without even, apparently, a murmur? It was shameful, the way all the others seemed secretly glad to stop their fighting, that they could actually __want_ _this preposterous 'peace.'_

_What chance did he have, if he was truly alone?_

_Starscream swung a vicious kick at his bunk, but succeeded only in putting a dent in his foot._

_By now the Air Commander had mostly given up threatening, screaming, and cajoling, and was indulging in a good sulk. But he'd still call out hopefully, whenever a particularly familiar step sounded outside. Occasionally, one or two of his fellow soldiers would stop to talk. But they never stayed long. And no matter how much he pleaded, they never keyed his door._

_He could not believe that even Thundercracker and Skywarp refused to free him. Thundercracker, that useless slagheap, had not been the same since he'd returned to base the night of the so-called Ceasefire. He avoided carousing with the rest of the mechs, disappeared for long stretches of time, and seemed to have doubled the intensity of his usual annoying brooding. Skywarp had been reasonably normal up until this morning. Then he'd come back from some mission in which he'd actually worked __with_ _an Autobot to __save other Autobots__..._

_It defied explanation. Granted, Skywarp claimed that he and that lug Grimlock had also brought several injured Decepticons in to a shelter for repairs. But the story that the thuggish teleporter seemed to most relish telling was the one about pulling Mirage out from under some beam and saving the sneaking spy's pathetic life. Well, Starscream was sick of hearing about it. Skywarp, of all mechs, bragging about saving an Autobot, like it was something __worthwhile__,_ _like he'd __enjoyed_ _it... It was inconceivable._

_The jailed Air Commander felt as if he were the only sane mech trapped in a world of lunatics._

* * *

Elita One sat casually across the knees of her bond-mate, Optimus Prime, her arms around his shoulders and her brow touching his. She could feel the old frustration rising up in her spark.

"You're doing it again," she commented reprovingly. "I'm here, I love you, and you should know by now that I'm tough enough to handle whatever slag you're dealing with. But as usual, you're hiding. Even from me." She ran her fingers between the tightly-strung cords that ran through his neck, even though she knew that this attempt to relieve the tension he held there would probably be futile. For maybe the thousandth time during their long union, she asked, "Why won't you trust me, talk to me, let me help you?"

Optimus turned away from her piercing gaze. The servos whined in his taut frame, as he forced himself to keep still. He wrapped his arms around her, and held on tight. "Your being here with me is enough," he said. "But it's frying my capacitors, all this waiting... not knowing..."

"Waiting for Megatron?" she inquired bluntly.

"Yes," he answered. "I'm sorry-"

She said nothing. She didn't trust herself to speak yet.

His fingers tightened at her back. "You'd think I would sense it," he said, his voice strained. "If he was- But, praise Primus, I don't know how it feels to lose a-"

"A bondmate?" Elita finished darkly.

"Bond-brother," he said, though he knew it didn't make much of a difference. "I know I should have asked you, dearest, but I had no idea that he would be-"

"I do understand," she interrupted. "If Megatron, wonder-of-wonders, agrees to permanent peace via a spark bond, it's not as if you can tell him-" She held up an admonitory finger, and deepened her voice in imitation of Prime's rich baritone. "-'Wait just a nano-klik, while I check with my life-mate to see if she approves'..."

Optimus chuckled ruefully. "That would definitely have 'ruined the moment' as they say."

Elita steeled herself. She took his much-scuffed hand, and pressed it tightly to her chest with both of her own.

"Optimus," she said flatly, "I want you to tell me about it. Everything. Don't leave me to infer what happened through the speculation of others. Please. I want to hear it first from you."

Optimus bowed his head. He knew she had every right to ask this of him. All the same, telling her about his bond with Megatron was going to be difficult. "All right," he agreed. Consciously, he released some of the pressure in his cydraulics. Then, quietly, he began.

"After the battle, I went to the Talus Overlook to be alone..."

* * *

"_Psst! Yo, Screamer!"_

_Starscream flinched at his least favorite epithet. "What do you want, you worthless shrimp?"_

"_Well, we was gonna bust you out," retorted Rumble, "But if you're not gonna be nice to us, we're just gonna leave ya in there t' rot."_

"_Yeah. Now ya gotta say __p__lease__,"__ added Frenzy._

"_And ya got about three nano-kliks t' do it, Screamer, 'cause we saw Sixshot coming down here on our way over, and watching him disintegrate you would almost be worth not having you to help us, so..."_

_Starscream ground his jaws. Hoping the bratty runts weren't just jerking his drive-chain, he snarled, "__Please__,__ you fragging little rust-buckets!"_

"_We heard that... all of it!" Frenzy called out gleefully._

"_But we'll still let ya out, 'cause, well, we're such good-hearted little rust-buckets," returned Rumble. With a shuddering crash, the door to Starscream's prison fell into his room in pieces._

_A klaxon began to wail._

"_Slaggit, I was lying about Sixshot!" hissed the purple Cassetticon, as booming footsteps sounded suddenly from around a nearby corner. He whirled on his brother. "You told me there was no one around here!"_

"_Well, whoever that is, it's time we weren't here either, isn't it?" spat Starscream contemptuously. Tucking the two Cassetticons under his arms, he burst out of his cell, raced down the corridor, and broke through the nearest door to freedom._

* * *

There was an explosive crash. The two Autobot Commanders looked up, startled, as the door at the far end of the room burst inward. In the ragged opening, a seething, drenched figure was outlined by the brilliant flash of lightening.

"Optimus Pit-spawned Prime!" growled Megatron, with a distinct note of triumph in his voice, "When I finally figure out how in blazes you talked me into doing this, you miserable slagging glitch, I'm going to tear you apart, then rip the pieces apart, stomp on them, irradiate the crunchy bits, and when all that's left of you is a little pile of crispy blackened crumbs, I am going to put them into the recycling unit _myself!"_ He had returned alive, and was bursting with pride at his achievement.

Elita felt Prime's whole frame sag with relief. She heard the tiny groan that escaped Optimus before he could contain it. And it was that small sound, more than anything else, which convinced Elita that things between the two of them would never be the same again.

Optimus saw his bond-mate's optics dim. He sensed her drawing away from him, knew the spark-constricting pain she must be feeling. Fiercely, he pulled her to him in a tight embrace, needing to make her understand how important she would always be to him. Taking her face in his hands, he declared, "I have loved you for the whole of my existence, Elita, and I'm not about to stop loving you now. You know that he can never take your place." He took her hand in his, and pressed it against his chestplates, hoping she would sense the pulse of his spark, the pulse she knew better than any other ever had. "Megatron is now my brother. But Elita, you are my _lifemate. _And not even the Destroyer Himself can ever change that._"_

She nodded, but said nothing.

Prime lifted the pink femme gently to her feet, and stood. "I know that this is hard for you," he said, "But right now I need to see to him, make sure he's all right, give the big mech the celebratory homecoming I'm sure he expects."

"I understand," Elita replied. She shot him a brave, brittle smile from the closed-up fortress of her face.

Optimus squeezed her hand, and turned away. "Get in here, you crazy mech," he called out to the dark figure in the doorway. "I can actually see your armor melting!"

Megatron looked awful: utterly slagged, one kick from the recycling pit. His armor was deeply pocked and dented, and it smoked where the raining acid still continued to corrode it. There were several large, blackened burn marks streaked across his body. He looked as if he ought not to have been able even to crawl. Yet he stood there in the doorway, positively radiating pride and triumph. In fact he looked, despite everything, deliriously happy. But his fiery optics flicked with some unease toward Elita.

The gray Decepticon was still inventing ever more creative ways of dismantling his Brother as he came stumping in out of the storm. He stood there dripping, optics slowly adjusting to the interior light, while Optimus moved quickly behind him and began levering the door back into position, muffling the sounds of the wild weather outside.

"You certainly picked a night for it!" said Prime over his shoulder as he wrestled with the broken door. "Why don't you go get yourself cleaned up while I try to close up this wonderful new entry you've just made? You're going to have a permanent rust problem if you leave that stuff on yourself too long."

He kept his optics focused on his work, knowing that Megatron would not want to be too closely examined in his current state, and listened as the heavy, stamping footfalls left the room. He heard the focus of the big mech's colorful curses shift in turn from himself, to rust, acid rain, the weather in general, Cybertron, Primus, and the cleaning facilities.

Prime offered up a brief but heartfelt prayer of gratitude for Megatron's safe and successful return. But he did not know what to do to help Elita.

* * *

The femme Commander stood quietly out of the light, and tried to make herself invisible. She noticed Megatron tense as he passed her, and realized that he wouldn't have expected anyone else to be here. She watched the two mechs intently, wanting to get a sense of the interaction between them. She knew what Prime had done was right. But she didn't think that she was ready to accept or trust her lifemate's new bond-brother.

* * *

The door would just have to hold until morning, Optimus decided, looking ruefully at the mangled mess. As he turned back to the room and brushed his hands clean, his optics lit on Elita where she hung back in the shadows. He walked over to her and whispered, "Please don't hide, dear one." Hugging her again, he added, "You are part of this whether you like it or not, I suppose. I can only remind you that I love you. I will always love you, even if you never make your own peace with him."

He kept his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder, and together, they turned to face Megatron as he stumped slowly back into the room. He was still wiping his face with an old cloth. When he looked up, they could see that all his previous wild elation had been replaced by strain and doubt. His usual room-filling power of presence had disappeared. Though still as defiant as ever, he seemed shrunken, intensely uncomfortable in the dull yellow lamplight. He glared obstinately from Prime to Elita and back again, and seemed acutely embarrassed.

Prime walked forward, all traces of humor gone. "Let me see," he commanded gently.

* * *

"_Report, you little fraggers! Do you see them?" _

_Starscream had always hated that sneaky tattler Soundwave. Now, hiding out in a deeply-buried bunker and hoping that its shielding would mask his energy signature for a few breems, the Air Commander was doubly glad that the accursed blue mech had finally offed himself. At least he could now send messages to Rumble and Frenzy, with little likelihood of their being intercepted._

_But confound and slag those cheeky Cassetticons! It was galling to his pride, how much he was having to rely on the annoying little twerps._

"_Got 'em, Boss!" crowed Frenzy over the comm._

"_About time! Now get the slag out of there, and bring them back to me!" Starscream snapped, closing the link with a sharp click._

_After a time, the two tiny Decepticons entered his hideout, carrying his beloved null-cannons on their shoulders. Rumble had a tool kit in his free hand. Shaking their heads at Starscream's ranting complaints, they began working speedily to restore his firepower._

"_Ouch! You Pit-rejects watch what you're doing!" Starscream scolded, as a sensitive circuit received a painful knock._

_Rumble threw down his tools, being careful to hit the complaining Seeker's foot with at least one, and crossed his arms defiantly._

_Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered to Frenzy,"Looks like someone needs a short, sharp lesson in respecting his fellow mechs." Turning to Starscream, he demanded, "Why do you think we saved your pathetic, whiny aft?"_

_Before Starscream could respond, Frenzy cut in, "Because we're gonna avenge Soundwave and the other Cassetticons; and we figured you might also be interested in causin' a little trouble. That's why." The red and black Decepticon moved to stand next to his brother, and also crossed his arms over his small chest._

_Ignoring Starscream's inarticulate spluttering, Rumble continued, "We don't particularly care whether we have your help or not. So don't strain our audios too much, Screamer, or we'll leave you to whoever wants you... that is, if anyone out there does. Scheme as much as you like, and we'll go along with your half-fragged plans. But only for as long as it suits us. We don't give a burnt-out boron compressor about what you want. We're only interested in taking out as many Autobots as we can before we get ourselves slagged. Soundwave and our comrades deserve to have a few kills made in their honor."_

_Starscream had never seen the little 'Cons look as grave as they did now, as they spoke of their annihilated family. He opened his mouth in an angry retort. But then he stopped himself, and considered. Short help was better than no help. If all these two pests were interested in was kicking Autobot skidplates, fine. He could use them. If things went his way, he would yet be the Commander of the Decepticons. Slag, if he planned things right, he could rule all of Cybertron. "All right then," he agreed. "If all you two want to do is fight and die, I can certainly arrange for you to fulfill that desire." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Let's to get to work!"_

* * *

Megatron flinched at Prime's approach. Instinctively, he clenched his arms around his bared head as if he expected a beating. "It appears I failed to take certain... personal responses into account," he said. He drew himself up, face twitching indecisively between a glower and a slag-eating grin.

He forced himself to move forward to meet them; but he glared at the femme beside Prime who had dared to intrude here. This rusty, cavernous warehouse had been the one place the Decepticon had felt safe – right up until _she_ had shown up to ruin it.

"I didn't realize I'd have to face anyone _else_ just yet," grumbled Megatron. He hated himself for the swift stab of jealousy that had shot through him at first sight of Prime's bondmate. It wasn't that he'd entered into the union with Prime under any pretense of a love-match. Far from it! But he had wanted more than anything else to keep his private thoughts, well, _private,_ and knowing that the Autobot would probably share everything that had passed between them with the little femme made him feel uncomfortably exposed. Perhaps even betrayed.

He shifted the fire of his gaze back to Optimus. "You could at least have done me the courtesy of putting off the slagging house party until I'd had a chance to get used to looking like an exhaust-sucking pleasure bot again!" he barked angrily. "I never did like being so fragging _pretty."_ He shook his head a little, but still couldn't seem to manage to lower the protective shielding of his arms. "I don't know what possessed me, that I let myself get talked into getting rid of that helmet," he grumbled.

Elita was curious. Megatron had always been more monster than mech to her, a dark demon of cruelty and rage. It was hard to reconcile those impressions with the bot who stood before her now, shuffling uneasily in her presence. She felt a surprising empathy with his discomfort. But even so, she kept well behind Optimus. This was Prime's territory, and she wasn't at all sure she wanted to make a place for herself in it just yet.

Optimus stepped forward, and reached out to put a hand on the other mech's shoulder. "You decided this yourself, my friend," he said. "No one forced you do it. In fact," his optics crinkled in the tiniest of grins, "I don't think anyone's ever been able to make you do _anything_ that you didn't want to do.

"Now," he continued, trying by the power of his voice to strengthen the agitated mech before him, "Why don't you take your hands down? You're going to have to do it at some point, you know. I saw the report of the explosion. There's no going back now."

Slowly, very slowly, Megatron forced his arms down to his sides. Darting a defiant, fiery glance at the trespassing pink femme, he raised his sunburst crest in a last desperate act of bravado. He might as well show off, he thought wildly.

Megatron summoned his usual mantle of power, and drew it around himself like a fortress. Revealed now in the absence of the plain metal helmet was the most magnificently-formed Cybertronian that either Prime or Elita had ever seen. No one would ever know what dreams had inspired his designer; but Megatron had obviously been conceived as a prince, a shining leader. His commanding presence radiated majesty, even though the Decepticon had always tried to tarnish his own brightness with a harsh brutality. Optimus took an involuntary step backward. "Well, I can see now why you liked being called 'The Glorious Megatron,'" he quipped, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Not for the first time, Optimus wondered what had convinced the Creator to choose Orion Pax as his Prime. He wondered what would have happened if, all those ages ago, things had been different, and Primus had chosen Megatron. He wondered if the big mech's drive to command and control would have become so poisonous, if it had been given some early legitimacy.

But such musings were pointless. For when a new Prime was required, Megatron had already turned to the darkness. He had rejected his own light, had jammed it down firmly under that sturdy gray helmet.

"Oh, my brother!" Optimus whispered, his spark aching with regret. He reached out, and took Megatron's head in his hands in a gesture that was both a blessing and a caress.

With shocking speed, Megatron crushed Prime's hands in a vice-like grip, and threw them from him. "Optimus," he growled low in his throat, "If you go all sentimental on me now, I swear by the Unmaker that I'll find a way to destroy you. I just..." He turned away, folding in his crest with a snap. "I just don't think I can deal with that now, all right?"

He walked over to a small compartment in which there were a few cubes of high-grade, and downed a whole portion in one go. Then he smacked his lips, and sent a long, sharp hiss of air from his vents. "By the Pit, I needed that!" he sighed.


	6. Act III scene ii

_**Scene ii**_

_Buried deep in their hidden bunker, the two stubborn Cassetticons and the manic Seeker formulated, fought over, and fine-tuned their plan of attack._

_Rumble and Frenzy wanted most of all to target the band of Autobot Wreckers who had terminated Soundwave._

_Starscream was obsessed as usual with deposing his Commander, and refused to hear of pursuing any other objective._

"_Think of it this way," he told the little mechs impatiently. "If we go after Megatron, you'll have a chance to terminate Optimus Prime as well. And with him gone, the other Autobots will be thrown into confusion. That will make your pursuit of 'justice' that much easier." His optics flashed as he added deviously, "Wouldn't the head of the deactivated Autobot Commander be a nice gift to present to your departed friends?"_

_In the end, the Cassetticons agreed to postpone their primary goal, mostly in order to get Starscream to shut up. But they had to admit, the sheer chaos that would result from the death of both faction-leaders sounded highly attractive. If they now felt cast adrift, terrified, and purposeless, why not make everyone on the planet share their despair?_

* * *

Riding the lift of the high-grade, Megatron turned to Elita and squared his shoulders. "Well my girl – what do _you_ think of all this?" he asked with a haughty smirk.

"I'm not _your_ girl," she retorted. But as the Decepticon's grin widened, she wished she hadn't risen to his bait.

"Feisty as ever," the big mech replied, giving the femme a mocking salute. "I'll never know what's convinced you to hang around this loser Optimus for so long."

In her peripheral vision, Elita caught Prime moving to protect her from his bond-brother's teasing. But she shooed him away with a quick shake of her head. She was going to need to be able to handle Megatron on her own, if she was going to uphold her own corner in this strange three-cornered family.

Always in the past, Elita had avoided the Decepticon Commander not simply because he wished to kill her, but because the rage which radiated from him was acutely painful to her highly receptive spark. But tonight all his animosity had been either short-lived resentment or empty bluster. She could not deny that things had changed.

Elita wanted very much to know if this new Megatron was genuine. She was inclined to think that his show of vulnerability was only a calculated front, designed to disarm the two Autobots before he committed the deepest kind of betrayal. But if these glimpses he had shown tonight were windows into his true self, then she had to admit she found his inconsistencies intriguing. So she squared her shoulders, and moved toward the heavy gray mech. It was time for her to get to know the real Megatron. If she found out he was lying, she would kill him. It was as simple as that.

* * *

Before the bond, Megatron had never deemed Elita One significant enough to warrant his personal attention. But within Prime's spark (and much to the red mech's embarrassment) Megatron had felt the love his Brother bore for his lifemate. He'd learned a lot about the femme captain from the besotted Autobot – much more than she would like him to know, he was certain. But that information was all from Prime's viewpoint, not his own.

Rapidly, Megatron compiled everything he knew of the pink femme for analysis. He was practiced at identifying others as either cannon-fodder, tools, or obstacles, and he prided himself on his ability to manipulate them to his own advantage. But Elita stymied him. She refused to be so easily categorized. Whereas Prime had always been easy to read and comprehend, Elita was much more complicated. She was obviously, as Primus would say, intent on 'resisting chaos,' but it was difficult for Megatron to interpret her motives. They were numerous, small and sharp, unlike Optimus Prime's – or even his own – singular grand visions.

_I could probably break that lightweight body of hers with one hand,_ he thought. But even the Mighty Megatron acknowledged that breaking the femme's proud spirit would be another matter entirely.

For a moment he was tempted to try it. It would be such a rush to make Prime's bondmate cower before him; a sweet revenge for the way the Autobot had seen him humbled.

But as he stared down at the small femme standing with her arms crossed protectively across her chestplate and her head cocked to one side, and met the unyielding gaze of those hard blue optics, he suddenly realized what his presence must mean to her. He threw back his crested head, and laughed uproariously. Humiliation, it appeared, was something they had in common.

"Elita, I'm amazed that you haven't fragged my circuits by now!" he chortled. "And I'm even more astounded that _Prime_ appears to have all his diodes intact. Slag, girl! If I were in your place, he'd be crawling on the floor in agony, and I'd be blown to microscopic scrap!" He wiped a hand across his face, and shook his head. "Yet there you stand, looking up at me like you're actually trying to convince yourself to let me live...!"

She did not flinch or look away; and his laughter abruptly stilled.

Megatron approached Prime's bondmate and, to his own surprise as much as to hers, knelt down before her, tucking in his crest. "I want to earn your trust," he said, and knew, amazed, that he meant it. "I want you to accept me." The big mech was used to forcing obedience from other bots. But this once, he thought he'd leave the next move up to Elita. It felt strange to relinquish control. But the sense of freedom which accompanied that release was surprisingly pleasant. He would accept her choice, whatever it was.

* * *

Elita approached her enemy with care. He was right of course; she would have loved to beat the slag out of both of them. But she needed to at least try to make peace with Megatron – not for Prime's sake, but for her own. She wasn't sure if she would ever be able to trust him, would ever stop looking for the lie behind his words. But she owed it to herself, to Prime, and even to the intruding Decepticon to give him one chance to prove he was sincere. Cautiously, she reached a tentative hand toward the heavily-built gray shoulder.

Elita had been created with an unusually perceptive spark, and its sensitivity was extended to her tactile sensors. When her fingers first touched her enemy's pocked and corroded armor, the coldness of the ancient steel-gray metal unnerved her, and she drew back sharply. She shook herself; then, determined not to flinch this time, she deliberately placed a hand on the head of her lifelong enemy. Somewhere she knew, beneath all these outer trappings, was the simple mech behind the fearsome legends.

His body had once been a superb construct – the work of a master craftsman. But after so many ages of endless warfare, the magnificent form had lost its splendor. Originally, she imagined, his finish had probably been bright, burnished silver. But as long as Elita could remember, Megatron had always been covered in layers of overlapping scars. The only part of him that retained its initial brilliance was his gold-crowned head, hidden and protected throughout his long rampage by the thick, utilitarian helmet with which the old fighter had disguised himself.

At last, Elita looked into Megatron's red optics. She was afraid she might see there the consuming fire of hatred which had always burned at her before. But now there was only a steady, banked ember of commitment behind his gaze. Despite Megatron's wild ferocity, Elita could sense a quiet peace growing within him, a stillness under all the bluster. He was, after all, waiting patiently in silence for her decision. This quietude of his was unexpected. It made her curious. She wondered if she dared trust it. Cautiously, she took one step nearer.

Normally, Megatron didn't allow anyone to touch him if he could help it. Part of being the Mighty Megatron, Destroyer of Worlds was maintaining a certain distance. So it felt strange now, to have those slim fingers running over his shoulders, his face, and the complex mechanisms of his crest, almost as if the little femme was blind, and was using her digits to 'see' him. He supposed, judging from what he'd gleaned about her from Prime, that in a way, she was. But he felt solace radiating from her careful touch, and a calm that slowed the driving pulse of his spark. He felt himself sinking into a quiet internal darkness that, now that it was clean, held no fear for him.

"What _do_ you think of all this?" he asked her quietly. He genuinely wanted to know.

At the first sound of his gruff voice, Elita froze. But she found herself answering with a candor that surprised her. "I am hurt – no, I am _angry_ – that he would open himself to his greatest enemy before he would trust me."

Megatron looked quickly up at her, then gently placed his heavy hand over her small one. "That slagger has kept you out for a long time, hasn't he?" he said. It was not a question. "He says it's to protect you." The Decepticon snorted. "Bet you enjoy hearing _that_ line over and over again." He paused. The unfamiliar words felt strange in his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said. With a little shrug, he added, "I'm sorry that it was me... and not you."

"Oh, I've known for some time that you two would have to find a way to work together if we were ever to see an end to this miserable war," Elita responded with an answering shrug. "But I don't think I ever expected... this." It felt good to say the words, to talk to someone who wasn't being distracted by 'more important matters.'

"I can't seem to stop myself from feeling betrayed," she admitted. "I know he didn't mean it that way, but-" She cocked an eyebrow, and gave the gray mech a lopsided smile.

"What will you do?" he asked.

Elita grinned suddenly, and saw an answering gleam in Megatron's dark red optics. She found herself recognizing in him some of the same rogue elements she carried within herself, and laughed outright. Bending down, she whispered confidently, "I'm going to dig my way under that precious wall he keeps around himself, if it's the last thing I do!"

Megatron laughed heartily. Then he rose to his feet. "That's more like it!" he said, clapping her lightly on the back. "That sanctimonious lug-nut needs to be reminded that he can't just keep you folded up on a shelf!"

Hope flamed in the femme's careful spark. She didn't hate him. In fact, to her astonishment she felt that she might have found a real friend in Megatron. Elita considered for a moment, then, with deliberation, touched the first two fingers of her right hand to the center of her torso plating. Reaching out, she pressed those same two fingers firmly against Megatron's massive chest, in the ancient Cybertronian gesture of loyalty. "I accept you," she said, and smiled up at her longtime enemy.

* * *

_So far, there seemed to be only a half-hearted attempt to locate and recapture Starscream. ("See – we told ya no one wants you around," heckled the little Cassettes, dodging his angry null-blasts.) Nevertheless, the Air Commander kept himself hidden, and sent Rumble and Frenzy out to gather the information they needed. They complained about being given all the dirty jobs, but went willingly enough. They had a lot more to learn besides where to find Megatron. They needed to know where they could inflict the most crippling damage on the Autobots as well._

_Prime and Megatron's location had been extremely difficult to discover, but the twin Cassettes had at last succeeded in doing so. When he learned that the two leaders were unguarded and alone, Starscream had spiraled into a frenzy of anticipation. Eagerly, he and the others set about making their way through the numberless tunnels of Cybertron toward their former leader's newly-discovered base of operations. The enterprise was risky, when there were still so many earthquakes, but none of the three obsessed Decepticons cared very much about the danger._

* * *

Megatron grabbed Elita One around the waist in an almost-crushing hug, and lifted her off the ground. Bending his mouth to her audial, he whispered, "That meant a lot to me, girl." His crest lifted as his mercurial mood rose once more to euphoria, and he whirled her around before setting her gently back onto the floor. He grasped her shoulder in one black hand, then ostentatiously pressed two fingers to his torso and then, carefully, to hers. "You know my dear," he said, "That's the first time I've ever experienced someone losing their fear of me." He rolled his heavy shoulders. "I find it unexpectedly pleasant." Smiling crookedly, he raised an optic ridge. "Your Optimus with his insufferable selflessness never had much fear to lose, so he wasn't very much fun to play with..."

Both of them turned to look at Prime. The red mech's scowl made it plain that staying out of their conversation had taken as much determination from him as participating in it had required from Elita and Megatron.

"Get over here, you obstinate old bot!" the gray mech called. When Optimus clumped across the room, he threw his arm around Prime's blocky red torso, and drew him in. "You're a lucky pile of slag, you know that?" he whispered.

"I do," replied Prime solemnly. "And I trust I need not spell out for you what will happen if you ever hurt her."

The Decepticon grunted. "A trip to the Smelter would be preferable, I imagine?"

"It would." Prime spoke without a trace of humor.

Megatron chuffed, and shook his head at Autobots and their heroic nonsense. Then he grabbed Prime's helm in both hands, and clanked his gilded browplate sharply against the other mech's blue one. "Thank you for believing in me, you crazy glitching scrapheap," he whispered.

"I always have, you know," Optimus responded simply.

"I do know," replied Megatron. "It's what brought me back."

Optimus threw an arm around each of his bond-mates, and looked from one to the other in amazement. "I am a very lucky bot," he said in a rush of feeling, "To have been granted such a family."

Megatron smacked Prime on the back of the head. "And don't you forget it either, little brother!" He gave the red mech one last crushing squeeze. "Now, my friends," he proclaimed loudly. "I'm going to get started on cleaning up the mess I'm certain you made of things while I was gone." He grinned, and pushed the Autobot Commander against his counterpart. "_You_," he admonished the red mech, "Need to go have a good long talk with that foxy femme of yours!"

The idea of Elita coming to know him through Prime was still uncomfortable to Megatron. But he really had liked the tough little femme. He'd trust her with his secrets, if, as he hoped for her sake, Prime did relent and let her back into his spark. She deserved to have her chance to dig under his bond-brother's ridiculous wall. And it needed to be now, before the Commanders emerged from their sanctuary and the world went crazy again.

Megatron walked over to the workstation they'd set up, and picked up a pile of datapads. Looking up, he was surprised to see Prime and Elita still standing there, hand-in-hand. _"Go!"_ he bellowed cheerfully. "It's about time you let me show you some off my amazing organizational prowess. They shall all be as protoforms in the hands of the Creator," he finished dramatically, waggling the fingers of his outstretched hands in an expansive gesture. "Get out of here!"

Optimus hesitated. "But what if..."

"Prime!" Megatron exploded, throwing down the datapads in frustration. "If you plan on never letting me do anything without looking over my shoulder to make sure I'm doing it 'right,' then say so now, and admit you lied about our being equal in rank and command. Don't slag with me, Optimus. Not now."

"I wasn't-" Prime paused. "Well," he went on, "I will admit to feeling a little uneasy about leaving the entire planet in the care of my arch-nemesis..." There was a bit of a twinkle in his blue optics.

"Ha! See? I knew it, you old hypocrite!" said Megatron. "At least you can acknowledge it; that's a start."

"But I'd be shirking my responsibilities if I took personal time now," the red mech asserted, unconsciously crossing his arms. "I try never to set my own requirements above those of others."

Megatron braced his arms against his desk, and counted to ten. "Prime!" he growled, "For Pit's sake would you step down from the podium for a few slagging cycles? I wasn't thinking about your 'requirements' at all. Why should I, when you pretend not to have any? I was thinking about what _Elita_ wants! Contrary to your opinion, the fate of all Cybertron does not always depend on _you_!"

The Decepticon Commander consciously slotted the rays of his crest back down into his head. He was going to have to watch that crest – it gave away more of his mood than he liked. In a more moderate tone, he continued, "Optimus, I know that you are only trying to do what you think is right. You hold yourself to this impossibly high standard, trying to 'act like a Prime should.' But it's annoying as slag. And Brother, I'm here to tell you that a leader as flawless as the ones you imagine never really existed!"

"But-!"

Megatron steamrolled over Prime's attempted interruption. "How much did you actually interact with Sentinel? Sure, he was a 'good' leader, but he was also persnickety and selfish. And I happen to _know_ how you felt when you first learned about Nova Prime's plans to take over the galaxy..."

Optimus was growing angry. "Dredging that up was low, even for you," he growled. "There's no need to throw my disillusionment in my face again." He took a step toward the other mech, and accentuated his words with a pointing finger. "I won't fall for your twisted logic this time, Megatron. Their actions have nothing to do with me. Their failures do not give me an excuse to allow myself to fail as well. In fact, they make it even more important that I _not_ fail; that I remain true to my calling."

Megatron walked around the desk to Optimus, and spoke with forced calm. "I'm not asking you to repeat their failures, Prime. I'm just asking you to admit that none of your heroes was perfect." Taking his bond-brother roughly by the shoulders, he added, "And neither are you. But _so what?_ You've done your best, and it has been damn good. You have a personal integrity that is real and admirable. It's fallible, but it's certainly solid enough to have been a real bug in my systems over the evorns. It just seems to me, little brother, that you put so much effort into being _Prime_ that you never take any time to be _Optimus._ In fact, I think you've actually forgotten how."

Prime shook him off. "I am the bearer of the Matrix," he said coldly. "My whole being is formatted around the fulfillment that duty. What right do you have to fault me for being consumed by it?" His voice was low with ancient anger as he added, "You killed the mech that I once was a long time ago, my ornamented brother. All I have left to _be_ is the Prime!"

It was so easy. They had fought each other for eons, and bond or no bond, the patterns ran in deep-cut ruts throughout their whole programming. And both were worn thin by the rigors of the day. Elita watched in growing concern, and wondered if she would have to shoot one or both of them in the back of the head before the night was over.

Red fire flashed in Megatron's dark optics. "Don't lie to me, Optimus; and stop lying to yourself." He flicked a dismissive finger against Prime's faceplate, and the _'ding!'_ of it was loud in the weighty silence. "That mech's still under there. You just hide him, that's all. I sometimes wonder if you're secretly ashamed that beneath your grand title, you're just a regular mech like the rest of us poor slaggers."

Prime shoved Megatron away, and shot back angrily, "You know that's not true! I wish to Primus I _were_ more than just a run-of-the-mill mech! I have to be more, don't you see it? I'm supposed to be the 'figurehead of all of Cybertron,' a 'beacon,' an 'icon,' an 'archetype'..." He spoke the grand-sounding words with the utmost sarcasm. "I have to stand apart, be above pettiness, be an example of everything I want our race to be. I have to _be the Prime_, whether or not I believe in my darkest hours that Primus must have been grossly deceived to consider me capable of it..."

Megatron grew quiet, absorbing Prime's passionate outburst. He put a calming hand on his new brother's shoulder. "You said you'd be willing to do anything for peace," he reminded the Autobot leader. "I'll wager you thought our spark-bond would be a sufficient 'sacrifice'..."

Prime grimaced, remembering that Megatron would of course have learned exactly how he'd felt about the whole idea of their bond.

"...But it's not," continued Megatron. "If you really want to set an example of 'Bot and 'Con working together, then you'll have to stop setting yourself apart. You'll have to learn how to share responsibility. And, yes, Optimus, blame as well!"

He lightly thumped Prime's worn red shoulder. But his voice was grave as he finished, "You're always telling everyone how much you believe in them. But you don't. Not really. Not if you think we're all too weak to function without a mythical, perfect Prime to oversee us."

Optimus froze. After a long moment, he dropped his head, acquiescing to the truth of what his old enemy had just told him.

Megatron reached out and gave Prime's neck a fraternal squeeze. "You need to start letting others know the real you," he admonished. "And you might as well begin with me and Elita here. Why is it so unacceptable for anyone to know what you're feeling? You know it's a sign of how fragged-up you are, that the only mech you felt you could safely confide in was me, right? By hiding your weaknesses from your friends, you let yourself get so lonely that you felt you had to turn to your worst enemy for true fellowship! Those are some dangerously crossed wires, pal. Learn to trust your friends, and stop hiding behind your 'Prime' mask, Optimus... before it drives you to insanity."

He turned to go back to the workstation. As he walked away, he added over his shoulder, "And for Pit's sake, talk to Elita! She loves you, though I really don't know why. Respect her enough to let her decide for herself whether or not she wants to help you carry all your accumulated scrap."

"And now," he said, gathering up a pile of datapads, "I've said my piece. Get the slag outta here. You and I both have work to do, Prime; but yours is certainly not out here with me."

Optimus slowly turned to face Elita-One. She was staring in open-mouthed amazement. Slowly, she brought her lips together; and a small smile blossomed there and spread until it almost split her face. "I'm just jealous that he got to say all that, instead of me," she chuckled finally, coming over and taking her bondmate by the hand. "But I suppose," she added, her smile fading, "Since I've been saying it for eons now, you probably wouldn't have listened to me this time, either..."

Prime winced.

"Come on," he said, taking her arm. "Let's go. I'll try not to hide."


	7. Act III scene iii

_**Scene iii**_

_Starscream was giddy. The thought of taking Megatron unawares, of vanquishing both him and Optimus Prime when the cowards both assumed that they would never have to fight again... It was beautiful. His plan was flawless; his quarry unprepared. It was all he could do to keep from crowing out loud in his delighted anticipation._

_As their point of access to the impromptu sanctum, the trio of Decepticon rebels had chosen a tiny chamber, far removed from the large entrance hall where heat signatures showed Megatron and Prime had set up temporary living and working arrangements. The Cassetticons assured Starscream that the room had not been used in vorns. But he didn't seem to care. The closer they got to Megatron, the more manic the Air Commander became. Now that his Glorious Leader had weakened himself by bonding with the enemy, Starscream was certain that this time, Megatron would fall before him as easily as he did every charge-cycle in his dreams..._

* * *

Elita led her bondmate to a room at the far end of the dilapidated building. She wanted to be out of range of any distraction from the main hall. She closed the door, locked it, and leaned back against its scuffed metal with a soft thump of finality.

Optimus stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand to keep himself from crossing his arms over his chest. He knew that crossing his arms would be a dead giveaway of what he was feeling... and that what he was feeling would hurt Elita.

What he was feeling was abject terror.

"I suppose you want to...?" he began, uncertainly.

"Optimus," she said in exasperation, knowing full well how nervous he was and why. "Just sit down and talk with me for a few micro-cycles. That, my dear, is all I am asking of you for now.

"And no," she continued, as the red mech lowered himself gingerly onto an old, much-dented locker, "I actually _don't_ have another lecture already formatted for you in my processor." She sat down next to him, threaded her fingers through his thick blue ones, and grinned, "I'll make one up as I go along."

But as Elita looked into Prime's troubled blue optics, her smile faded. Humor apparently wasn't going to loosen him up, so she revved her engine, and took a more direct approach.

"Dearest, some part of you has always felt freer to reveal your weaknesses to Megatron than to your friends... Or even to me." She tightened her grip on Prime's hand, and went on, determined to have things out before they had the chance to fester. "Just now, for instance, you were more open with him than I've seen you be in ages. And I need you to tell me _why_. I'd rather have you shout at me, the way you shouted at him out there, than have you continue to keep everything locked inside yourself. Is there some reason you can't trust me, Optimus?"

The light in Prime's blue optics flickered. He turned toward her, and took her other hand in his free one. "It's not that I don't want to confide in you," he began.

"You used to," she reminded him.

"Yes. I know." He stopped. Somehow, he couldn't seem to find the words.

Elita's own optics darkened. "Have you grown tired of me then?" she asked bluntly. "Were you looking for some different diodes to tweak?"

"No! It wasn't like that at all!"

"Then what was it, Optimus? What made you give yourself to Megatron, but not to me? I've been here for you since we were first formatted. But it's been vorns since we last bonded."

"I know." He looked away from her. He had to – the brightness of her piercing gaze was like a laser through his core.

"It's just that I don't want to ask you to carry the burdens that I have to bear," he muttered. "So much responsibility; so many regrets... Do you realize, my love, how many thousands of mechs have looked to me to save them... and been disappointed..."

Elita had heard this argument more times than she liked to count. Usually, she heard it only as a feeble excuse. But now, she was beginning to wonder...

"Optimus," she asked, "Are you afraid that _I'd_ be disappointed in you?"

The answer came as a reluctant whisper. "Terrified!"

"But Dearest," she murmured with a knowing smile, "You disappoint me every day. Why should a spark-union make any difference?"

Prime turned back to her and gaped. He hadn't expected _that_ response.

"But I still love you – glitches, rusted undercarriage, and all," Elita reassured him with a smile. "The thing I still don't understand is why you wouldn't rather let your bondmate help you when you make a mistake, then show them all to Megatron – your greatest enemy." Elita continued.

Prime's vocalizer clicked, and a torrent of words escaped him before he could stop them. "Somehow, it was _because_ he was my enemy that I could let him see me weak, Elita. I don't know what it is exactly, dear one, but he's always been my opposite, the antithesis I measure myself against. So I frankly didn't give a load of scrap what he thought about my failings." He snorted. "It's even possible that I wanted to see myself from his perspective – you know as well as anyone how I sometimes get bogged down in doubt and self-recrimination. And since he's always been able to see right through me anyway..." He broke off, and stared into the femme's sober white face. "All I wanted was to do whatever it took for peace!" he said. "I didn't care what it meant for me."

_Or what it meant for me,_ Elita added to herself. But she did not say the words. There would be time for all that later. Right now, the only thing she wanted was to be readmitted to her sparkmate's soul. She was tired. Tired of standing on her own, tired of pretending she didn't need him, tired of letting him get away from her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and dropped her head onto his shoulder. It had been far, far too long, and she was through with waiting.

"I need you, Optimus," she said. "It's lonely in the world without you."

Prime tightened his arms around her out of instinct. And suddenly he found himself wishing with all his might that the armature of their bodies was not separating them. "It's been lonely without you, too, sweetheart," he agreed.

He cupped his well-worn hand around the back of her head, and rested his weary brow against hers. How had he ever thought he could be the Prime without the backing of this quiet, steady femme? He touched his first two fingers briefly to his own chest and then, softly, to hers. Then he flattened his palm over her spark, and felt again its familiar pulse.

It felt like coming home. He sighed. "Can you forgive me?"

Elita dropped her head onto his shoulder with a sharp _clonk_ of resignation. "You silly, misguided, foolish, frustrating, glitched-out, decrepit old mech! I ought to frag your circuits for being so completely dense." She pounded a fist against the scuffed armor of her truant bondmate with every word she spoke.

"_Old?" _Prime gave a sudden laugh. He grabbed one of Elita's pummeling fists in his hand, and pulled her close to him, the way he should have done a long, long time ago. "I prefer to be called _experienced,_ sweetheart."

Relief flooded through Elita's systems. Optimus - _her_ Optimus, the fun-loving mech so often hidden beneath the Prime - was returning to her at last. "Experienced?" she retorted. "Not lately!"

"We'll see about that," Prime replied, a twinkle growing in his ancient optics.

He opened a small access panel in his midsection, disconnected a plain black cord, and began twirling it flirtatiously. "So," he teased, "Do you remember the last time I saved your life?"

"Ah yes..." Elita tapped a finger coyly against her chin as she feigned a fuzzy recollection. "There was something about you dragging me into the back of your trailer and hauling me off to Alpha Trion for repairs." She grinned mischievously. "But I also recall that the only reason I'd drained my life-force was to save _your_ pathetic chassis from a fatally-exfoliating acid bath."

Prime snorted and shook his head. "A single-use-only time-stop field," he mused. "Who would give you such a useless power?"

"Someone who wanted you to live, and knew you'd never let me die," she retorted. "Now, what exactly did you plan on doing with that cable? Crochet?"

Prime laughed. "I was hoping for something a little more invigorating..."

Elita chuffed and rolled her optics. But she disconnected her power filter, and plugged Prime's cord, the only one on Cybertron compatible with her system, into that empty port. But then she pushed away from the red mech.

"Orion." Elita took her bondmate's chin in her hand, and frowned up into his kind, familiar face. For one last, brief moment, she was serious. "I know you shared your energy like this to save my life that day. But please remember that on your own you cannot support every clamoring bot around you. You'll quickly exhaust your own reserves if you try. And then you'll be of no use to anyone, my love."

Pointedly, Elita reached across, and plugged her own power cable emphatically into the Autobot Commander's port. "If you want to be able to keep on offering of yourself, you'll need continual replenishment from others. And _that,_ dearest, is why you need _me_. Please Optimus," she repeated. Elita pressed her palm against the armor of his chest, and felt the steady, enduring pulse behind it. "Remember that."

"I will." The red mech bent his head to touch the helm of his beloved. "I promise. I'll never shut you out again, Elita."

"Good." She grinned at him. "And now..." She unlatched the casing of her spark chamber with the simplicity of long practice. "Come to me, my love. Please."

One by one, the relays, pumps, and fans that ticked and tocked the daily rhythm of Elita's body slowed and ceased. A spark-bond was a union of souls; it required neither sight nor servo. Her lithe and lovely form became an empty metal hull in Prime's arms. But her bright white spark was alive with waiting light.

Optimus felt strange, as he unlocked his own spark chamber for the second time in only a few days. He thought briefly of Megatron, ordering the unification of Cybertron in his absence, and realized suddenly just how suited the big mech was to that particular task. He shook his head. For some unknown reason, he'd been offered the love and trust of two of the best of Primus's creations. Refusing to accept that gift would be a criminal waste.

Optimus stared into Elita's bright spark as it hovering hypnotically before him. He had always thought her soul-orb to be especially beautiful, with its dancing ribbons of sunset-rose that arced and spun within the warm white fire. Once more he was humbled by her quiet strength, by the depth of her trust in him. How had he ever imagined that she would find his burdens too heavy?

He chuckled as he realized that he had never once considered the possibility that he might feel overwhelmed by what _she_ had to carry. _It would certainly serve me right!_ he thought. Still laughing quietly to himself, he murmured to his waiting bond-mate, "Bring it on, dearest. Blow me away." He remembered, with growing anticipation, that she always did...

Prime's sturdy frame settled into an almost-forgotten tranquility, as he too powered down his systems. At long last, the spark of Optimus Prime abandoned his darkened, silent body; and fell gratefully, longingly, blissfully into the familiar, loving embrace that was Elita.

* * *

The holographic communicator beeped to signal an incoming message. Megatron sat down, and pressed the button to respond.

Prowl's head appeared, floating half-transparent in the air. For an awkward moment, he seemed not to recognize Megatron without his customary helmet. When he did, though, he looked even more disconcerted.

"I was hoping to speak with Prime?" said the Autobot Second-in-Command, his voice rising slightly so that the statement ended in an uncertain question.

"Prime's busy elsewhere, so you'll have to speak with me," Megatron replied, smirking. "And you'll need to get used to doing it, too."

The unit beeped again, causing the Decepticon to swear. Muttering, he clicked over to the second message. This one was from Shockwave. Frowning, the Decepticon Commander opened and acknowledged this additional transmission.

Shockwave's singular visage shimmered into the air, and he and Prowl looked at each other in surprise. Megatron waved a hand toward the Autobot. "You called first," he said airily. "Go ahead."

"Well," began Prowl hesitantly. "It's the weather, mostly..." He pulled himself together, and began to deliver his report with what he hoped was the same efficiency he would have shown to Optimus Prime. It sounded a bit forced, but he managed a passable effort.

"The storms are easing, and the earthquakes are growing fewer and less violent," he began. "We still have a few trapped mechs to find and dig out, but we're coming to the end of that effort as well..."

"All this sounds wonderful. What's the problem?" Megatron interrupted gruffly.

Prowl gaped, and Shockwave took the opportunity to insert a comment. "Lord Megatron," he began. (Prowl raised an optic ridge at the Decepticon as he spoke the grandiose title.) "I believe what the Autobot is trying to say is that our soldiers are growing restless now, with the planetary disturbances no longer distracting them from the current absence of an established government. They are becoming increasingly difficult to control."

Prowl nodded in agreement, looking faintly surprised to find himself doing so. "We -" He looked enquiringly at Shockwave. "We are wondering if you and Prime can give us a specific time when you mean to share your plans with the rest of us. We've given you as much leeway as we can, but..." His expression hardened. "It's time to come out of hiding. The gossip is growing... dangerous. It won't be long before someone breaks the ceasefire."

Megatron frowned. "I see," he replied. After a moment's thought, he continued, "Go back, both of you, and call a global assembly in one orn's time." He thought again. "We will hold it... At Talus. Yesss. On the last battlefield of the Great War."

He steepled his fingers, and smiled grimly. "That ought to keep them all busy. Not only will everyone have to find transport to the location, but you'll need to set them to work clearing away the debris to make room for such a large assembly. Optimus Prime and I will address everyone from the hilltop above the remains of the city one cycle before sunset." He huffed, and rolled his heavy shoulders to loosen the stiff joints. "That should suffice."

Prowl nodded curtly. "Understood." The Autobot Second's visage flickered and dissipated as the black and white mech signed off. But Shockwave remained.

"Is there something else you wish to tell me?" Megatron asked him suspiciously.

The purple Decepticon scientist raised his inscrutable head. "Yes, Lord Megatron. There is one item of... possible concern." The purple mech shifted uncomfortably. "Two orns ago, I ordered Starscream confined to quarters."

Megatron barked a humorless laugh. "I'm surprised you didn't do that the moment the Ceasefire was called."

"Er, yes, Lord Megatron." Looking increasingly distressed, Shockwave went on, "This morning he escaped."

Megatron chuffed impatiently. "Please tell me that did not surprise you? What half-cocked plot was he compiling when you caught him?"

Shockwave's single yellow optic flickered. "We... We haven't actually recaptured him yet, Lord Megatron. You see, there haven't been any of the usual signs of one of his attempted take-overs, and... Well, I can't seem to convince anyone to put much effort into finding him."

"And you yourself, of course, have much more important things to do," the gray mech finished for him.

"I do," Shockwave replied, oblivious to his Commander's sarcasm.

Megatron sighed loudly, and tapped his fingers on the board in front of him. "I should have known I'd have to deal with him myself," he muttered. He squared his shoulders. "Starscream will come to me. He always does. I'll take care of him then." He looked up again at his lieutenant. "If that is all, then you are dismi-"

The muffled shriek of weapons' fire, and the crash of heavy objects falling came faintly from the farthest recesses of the building.

Cutting the transmission without a word, Megatron sprang up, and tore through the darkened corridors toward the sounds, terror twisting in his fiery spark.


	8. Act III scene iv

_**Scene IV**_

"_There's no way for them to know we're coming; those big lumps never would imagine that the seeds of their destruction had been sown beneath their very feet!" crowed Starscream. "At last, I shall have satisfaction! At last, I shall have my just reward! Finally, after all this time, I-"_

_The Seeker's ecstatic reverie was interrupted by a grunt of surprise from Rumble, who had been, as quietly as possible, breaking through the floor. "There's a light!" The purple Cassetticon whispered._

"_So?"_

"_There shouldn't be anything in there!"_

"_Let me see, you struttless little-!" Starscream shoved the little bot out of his way. He put an optic to the narrow crack. And slowly, the Air Commander began to shake with suppressed mirth._

"_Well, my pestiferous little friends-" The echoes of the Seeker's voice reverberating loudly down the tunnel, startling Rumble and Frenzy terribly. "It appears that Primus has sided with you. You say you want to slag yourselves some Autobot manifolds. Well, you are about to be granted your dearest wish... and without any danger whatsoever to your own precious plating!"_

_The two brothers looked at each other, wondering if the Air Commander had finally scrambled his CPU completely, and if so, how they would overpower him if he should turn his madness against them._

_Starscream saw their shared glance; but it only increased his raucous laughter. "Climb up and take a look for yourselves!" he invited, chortling gleefully._

_The two small mechs hesitated. Then Frenzy climbed up to peer through the crack, while Rumble stood guard, watching Starscream cautiously._

_Frenzy was silent for a full two kliks. Then, "Rumble...?" he murmured hesitantly, gesturing toward the crack of light._

_The twins exchanged places, and Rumble looked carefully through the crack. When he climbed back down, his face was unusually grave._

"_I don't think I want to 'take out the biggest Autobot of all,' Starscream," he said soberly. "Not like this. I don't care how easy it would be. There are some lines that even a Decepticon shouldn't cross."_

_Frenzy nodded in subdued agreement. "We won't go through with it."_

_Starscream looked as if someone had cut the lines in all his cydraulics. He sagged in utter disbelief. "You 'won't go through with it?'" he hissed. "You don't think it's 'right'?" He stepped menacingly toward the two twins, and bent low over them. "You'll go up there, and you'll like it, or I'll slag your little afts myself," he threatened. "This is our chance, and we're taking it!"_

_Starscream blasted a large hole in the floor above them, then pointed his weapons at the two miserable Cassetticons. "Up you get," he growled._

* * *

The three Decepticons emerged dustily from underground, their optics blinking rapid recalibration in the brilliant blaze of sparklight.

Starscream stepped immediately up to the bodies of Elita-One and Optimus Prime. The white orb floating between them made the shadows quiver on his taut face. The Seeker raised his arm weapons. "This is just too easy!" he exulted.

He shot Elita first, even before he'd charged his null cannons to their full power. Prime's big frame jerked as the cords that linked it to his bondmate's body were torn loose. Her lightweight shell flew sprawling across the room. It landed in a far corner, nothing more than a heap of tangled wires and contorted limbs.

The united spark-orb shuddered, then steadied itself again in front of Optimus's open torso.

Starscream smirked in satisfaction. Then he turned his attention to the red and blue mech still propped up on the dented old locker. Wrapping an arm around Prime's neck, he whispered venomously into the Autobot's unreceiving audial, "This is what happens when you let your guard down, when you're foolish enough to start trusting your enemies." He snorted. "You think you're holier than the rest of us poor slaggers. That you're somehow 'special.' But will Primus save your sorry chassis when it really, _really_counts?"

He placed his weapons against Prime's unguarded back, and let loose their full destructive blast. The Autobot Commander's body tumbled violently across the floor, and came to rest in a jumbled heap against a wall. Starscream walked over to it, and gave the broken, smoking thing a good strong kick. "I didn't think so," he sniffed.

Rootless, quivering, the swirling spark-orb wandered haltingly toward the ceiling.

Rumble and Frenzy shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't how they'd imagined it. There was no satisfaction in revenge, if taken on two defenseless bots when they were linked to each other in such a private, sacred bond.

Unconsciously, the twins drew closer together, each wrapping a protective arm around the other. What they were doing – what Starscream was doing, at any rate – was much worse than what had happened to Soundwave and their Cassetticon companions. What they were doing was unholy. "I ain't used to worryin' about blasphemy," muttered Frenzy into his brother's ear, "But if this ain't it than I don't know what is. An' I don't like it."

Starscream looked up at the trembling globe with a hungry intensity, his avid face eerie in its brilliance. A spasm of jealousy distorted his face. "No one wants you, _Screamer,"_ he whispered, and his finely-wrought features twisted into an ugly expression of pain and hatred. He wiped a fist across his twitching mouth, and reached greedily toward the shivering ball of light.

* * *

A voice of cold iron spoke grimly from the darkened doorway. "If you so much as dare to _touch_ them, I will utterly destroy you."

All three Decepticons recognized the familiar hum of the charging fusion cannon. They cringed into corners as Megatron entered, and the power of his presence filled the tiny room. He shot one swift, fiery glance down at the cowering Cassetticons; then stepped between the glowing orb and his mutinous Second. To the smaller bots, he appeared as a looming dark power, his heavy frame outlined by an aurora of white sparklight.

But Starscream's high, mad voice tore through the spellbinding vision. "Why, if it isn't my old Leader!" he cried. Leering up at Megatron's bared crown, the red Seeker screeched insolently, "Look at you, all prettied up for Prime. Still trying to impress him, I see." He spat a stream of hot energon at his Commander's feet. "You disgust me, Mighty Megatron."

Megatron's armor was clattering with the force of his rage. But his weapon was as steady as death. "The Rig or the cannon, Starscream," he ground out. "You decide."

But Starscream wasn't listening. "I stopped taking your death-threats seriously half a lifetime ago," he sneered. Then he whirled on his Commander. "You're such a slagging _idiot,_ Megatron!" he screamed. "You think I ought to tremble in my shell at the prospect of eternal spark-containment in The Rig. But you can't even _touch_ me now. You've sold your soul to Prime; and now you have to abide by _his_ foolish rules. And that means letting me have my say before the Prefects. And we both know how that'll turn out."

He adopted a longsuffering, sanctimonious tone, and clasped his hands before him in mock pleading. "Oh Sirs, it was those filthy Cassetticons! I have audio files to prove my case, Sirs! Those little abominations were mad for revenge, and took it out on the poor, defenseless Autobots. I tried to save them, Sirs, but then Megatron burst in, and-"

The Cassetticons looked at each other in dawning horror, as they realized their true place in their partner's plans.

Starscream laughed shrilly. "I am free, Megatron! And you have left yourself bound and helpless before me!"

Evading Megatron's lunging grasp, The Air Commander flipped his lithe body over the tall gray warrior's shoulder, and plunged a finger recklessly into the pure white globe of sparks. It cringed and convulsed at his invasion.

Roaring in inarticulate rage, Megatron grabbed Starscream by the throat and threw him sprawling onto the floor. He ground a heavy knee down onto the seeker's heaving torso, and jammed the end of his fusion cannon directly over the thin flier's throbbing spark. Always before, he'd carefully aimed just far enough off-target to avoid permanently deactivating his second-in-command. But this time, for the first time, he was precise. Even Starscream could feel the difference.

"I.. let.. you... _live,"_ he growled. With a huge black fist, he strangled the Seeker's vocalizers, compelling him to silence.

"You disobeyed me, and I let you live. You betrayed me, and I let you live. You continually brought my best-laid plans to ruin, and _I let you live."_ With each successive statement, the gray mech pounded Starscream's head against the floor, rage straining against his crumbling self-control.

"I let you live," he cried in an agony of remembrance, "Not because you were a useful soldier, or because you made a good example to the others every time you tried and failed to overthrow me, or even because I enjoyed manipulating you, you miserable, pathetic weakling. I let you live because _I saw myself in you._ You were everything I was, driven by all the same ambitions, but without the talent to succeed.

"You were so easy to control and mold. Almost everything you are, _I made._

The big mech's cooling fans kicked in; and the quiet whirring of them was the only sound for two or three tense nano-kliks. He looked down into his Second's ever-present smirk. "And look at what you've become," he said. "Look at how I've mangled and bent you." His choke-hold loosened, and Megatron dropped his gilded head in shame and deep regret.

The red jet's writhing body went slack, his staring optics wide as he looked up into Megatron's dark face.

"You were like a twisted part of my own spark, Starscream," the tall gray leader whispered. "I could never have killed you."

For a while Starscream lay motionless. Then he slowly moved a tentative hand to massage his crimped neck cords. He looked up into Megatron's furious grief with an almost preternatural calm. When he could speak again, he croaked, "You're going to have to kill me, Dearest Leader. I will never stop. I can't stop any more, don't you see that? I don't know how to stop. I never did." He shifted his body slightly, looking for a more comfortable position. "You'll have to kill me now, or let me go." He paused for a long moment. Then he added in mild curiosity, "I wonder if you've got the chrome-steel bearings to go through with it this time?"

Megatron sat utterly still, fusion cannon still precisely positioned over Starscream's spark. His optics slowly darkened. His lips moved silently to form the remembered words, "_I don't want to be a murderer anymore. I'll be a soldier. I'll be an enforcer. Slag, I'll even be an executioner. But I don't ever want to be a murderer again."_ But how many others would have to die in order for Megatron to keep that promise to himself?

For once, Starscream had spoken the plain truth. He'd never stop. No matter how far they banished him, he would somehow return. No matter how securely they locked his spark away, he'd find a way to manage his escape. As long as he was living, Starscream would threaten those two souls whom Megatron now loved as he had never loved himself.

From the doorway, Megatron had seen the jealousy and hatred on the Seeker's face as he reached toward the bright spark-orb. The red jet had never been able to conceal his own unrequited yearning for such a bond. Now Starscream would do all in his power to destroy the family Megatron had formed with someone else.

The ancient, scarred gray mech knelt over his captive Second, as motionless as if he had been turned to stone. He waited, hoping that somehow, some other option might present itself.

Impatiently, the red jet twisted suddenly in his grasp, his weapons humming as he brought them up to charge. With one free arm, he strained to fire upon the hovering sparks.

"I'm sorry, Starscream. Good-bye." Megatron loosed the blast of his fusion cannon into the heart of his tormented and tormenting Second. Then he slumped, unseeing, over the Seeker's graying corpse.

A fearful whisper sounded in the darkness. "Hey... Boss?" Megatron felt the tiny, tentative hands of the two silent Cassetticons on his arms. He remembered Soundwave's eerie death, thought of how these two little mechs had seen their own family so needlessly snatched away. He guessed then what had brought them under Starscream's thrall. Wordlessly, blindly, he pulled the two bereaved brothers to him.

From their three gruff vocalizers rose the keening, harmonic wail of the death-song of Cybertron.

* * *

The light in the room began to flicker and change. The sparks above were separating; but without their bodies, the white and the blue could only wander alone in confusion. At once, the big mech shut away his grief and snapped into a brisk, cold efficiency.

"Megatron to Ratchet," he barked into his comm. "Prime and Elita have been shot. We need you. Get here now." He slapped the communicator shut, cutting off Ratchet's voice on the first rising syllable.

He darted an assessing glance at the two small bots. They nodded mutely. "Quickly then!" he directed, his voice sharp as broken obsidian. "Help me!" He pointed at the two shattered shells at the edges of the room. "Their sparks will fade and die if we don't return them to their chambers soon."

Long-buried memories returned to him of energon-stained rooms beneath the fight pits of Kaon, as his experienced hands worked frantically to disentangle the crumpled bodies. When the heavy lifting was complete, Megatron left the two smaller mechs to begin the simplest of the necessary repairs. Then he ran down the corridor to retrieve the woefully-inadequate toolkit that was all he and Prime had brought here with them.

* * *

"So this is how you repay his trust?" Ratchet burst through the open door and skidded to a stop, his optics widening as he took in the scene before him. "You can't harm Optimus yourself; so you get your lackey to do it for you, then kill the poor slagger before he can talk?" He rushed to the body of Prime, and aimed his holo-scanner. 71% damage. Critical.

"Ah, yes, here comes the wise and benevolent Autobot, ever ready to leap to the wrong conclusion just so he can have an excuse to slag the evil, murderous Decepticon," Megatron flung back at him angrily.

"Yeah, Doc, it wasn't-" began Rumble. But Ratchet only shoved the little bot aside, and ran the scanner down the length of her dismembered frame.

86% Damage. The medical term for that condition was 'Totally Slagged.' Very well then, he'd start with Elita. One bot at a time; it was all he could do. And as always, he hoped to Primus that his all would be enough.

Ratchet consciously slowed the fevered pounding in his spark. He needed a clear head. Over the long years of repeatedly patching his friends together, he had perfected certain internal protocols that enabled him to do the job at hand while distancing himself from the fact that a comrade's life depended solely upon his own skill and speed.

He noted with approval that Rumble and Frenzy had made a good start on the work at hand. They had reattached Elita's left arm, and were now working to seal the cydraulics in her two broken legs. But the work on her spark casing, the most vital and pressing, remained for the Medic to do.

"You two," he barked at the two Cassetticons. "Keep working on her legs. But stay the frag out of my way. And remember that if I catch you sabotaging her, I'll make you wish you'd never been assembled!"

Restless for something to do, Megatron knelt beside his bond-brother, and surveyed the twisted wreck that only a few short breems ago had been the Autobot Commander. The damage was enough to make even his tanks churn. But he hadn't spent all that time on the gladiatorial circuit without picking up a wide range of basic repair experience. "Have you got an extra 3-ell spanner in your subspace?" he growled to the Medic.

Ratchet pursed his lips in an instant of agonized decision. Then he flung the required tool to Megatron. "If you damage him in any way, I'll make you pay to the Pit!" he warned.

"I look forward to watching you try!" retorted Megatron. "Now, how about an arc welder?"

"I'm using it," said Ratchet bluntly.

A moment later he finished re-seating the chamber within Elita's broken torso. Then he flung the welder across to his oldest enemy with barely a glance. Time was pressing. He had to repair the more delicate connections of her spark core to her neural cortex. But work on a bot's vital systems was difficult. And risky as well.

"_The frame supports the spark, as the spark supports the frame,"_ he muttered to himself, hoping the old Med-Training mantra would steady the soldering iron in his shaking hands.

"Will these bodies still sustain them?" Megatron asked, overhearing the doctor's murmuring. He was not quite able to keep the concern out of his voice.

"I don't know!" Ratchet answered impatiently. "You know as well as I do that sparks deteriorate if they are left out of containment for too long." His face was grim as he hunched over his work. "But if I put their sparks back into bodies this shattered, the shock could be catastrophic." He huffed. "All we can do is repair their shells as much as we can, in what little time we've got."

"What more can I do to help?" Megatron asked sharply. "I do have a personal stake in this, you know. Much as you'd like to think otherwise, I happen to care very much about these two!"

Ratchet slammed a wrench onto the floor, and picked up a small set of pliers. "You can keep an optic trained on their sparks," he growled. "If you see one of them flicker or start to go dim, sing out!" He grimaced. "When that happens, things around here will start to get _really_ interesting. Now quit slagging with me, and let me work!"

"But how will we move the sparks from up there down to the casings?" persisted Megatron, his nervous gaze straying constantly back to the blue and white orbs dancing skittishly overhead.

"I'll have to use my hands," the Medic replied shortly. "I wasn't able to bring anything fit for emergency spark containment. I just hope they'll forgive me for the intrusion..."

The four bots worked frantically on the empty, broken shells. With all the speed they had, they wrapped and reconnected stripped wires, sealed up leaking hoses, and pounded twisted plating back into place. The spitting sparks of the welder threw sudden shadows on the wall, beneath the naked souls of Optimus Prime and Elita-One.

After a breem or so, Rumble moved wordlessly across the floor to help Megatron put Prime together, so that each shell had two mechs working to restore it before it was too late. And all the while, the four of them kept darting glances upward, wondering how much longer they would have before the souls above them began to dissipate.

There was a flicker that did not come from the welding torch, and Megatron spoke out sharply. "Medic!" he called. "Elita's spark! It's time!"

Ratchet grunted in reply. He was hurrying to complete one last vital repair.

Megatron stood. "_Now_, Medic!" he shouted with increasing alarm.

Ratchet shook his head, wishing the accursed Decepticon would stop hounding him and let him finish. But then, in his peripherals, he saw the big mech stride impatiently over to where the two sparks shivered overhead, and reach out toward Elita's sputtering soul.

"_Stop!"_ cried the white Autobot, dropping a tiny spanner with a clang. "It has to be someone she _trusts!_ She'll fight you, and damage-"

He broke off, as his auditory receptors registered a sound he had never before imagined. Megatron, the hulking, battle-scarred mech-murderer, was _crooning_ to Elita's spark.

"Come on, my dear. You know me."

Ratchet watched, stunned, as Megatron slowly extended a hand.

"It's time to go back now sweetheart. I will take care of you. I will show you the way. Come with me now, little one. You don't have to be afraid..."

The Medic stared in dumbstruck amazement, as Elita's white spark-orb settled trustingly into the Decepticon's cupped black hands.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," the gray mech whispered to the feebly-pulsing spark, "This is really going to hurt. We'll get you into stasis right away, and then you'll definitely have earned some CR time." Murmuring encouragements all the while, he guided the glowing spark down to the lifeless body, and placed it delicately into into its waiting core.

Still in a daze, Ratchet closed the casing cautiously over Elita's flickering fire.

And in that instant, the pink femme's optics blazed. Her whole body jerked with sudden agony. _"__Optimus!" _she cried, her voice rasping in pain.

"He's here, sweetheart," Megatron reassured her quickly. "He's going to be fine," he added, and hoped to Primus it was true. He took her trembling hand in his, and held it tightly. "He's not as badly off as you were, little one. Besides, no matter how slagged he gets himself, he always manages to pull through somehow, doesn't he?" Megatron forced confidence into the words, repeating them over and over again to himself as well. "Don't worry, sweetheart. He'll be right beside you, when you wake up."

He turned to Ratchet. "What the_ slag_are you waiting for, Medic?" he hissed._ "_Put her into stasis! She's in pain! Do it _now_, frag you!"

The Medic's blue optics blinked once. Then with a shrug and a bemused smile, he clicked the override switches that deactivated all but the most basic of Elita's internal systems. Her taut body slackened, and her optics went dark.

"She'll have to hold out for now, until we've stabilized Optimus," he declared. "And then..." he looked questioningly at Megatron. "I'll carry her to the Cryo-Regeneration facilities, and you'll bring Prime?"

Megatron nodded curtly. He didn't know how he would survive, if at the end of all this there was no Prime for him to carry.

Ratchet gathered up his tools, and moved quickly over to the body of his commanding officer. He noted gratefully that the three Decepticons had already made good progress. Megatron had done the larger tasks of relinking limb and plating; while the nimble hands of the Cassetticons had already completed much of the more delicate repair. Thank Primus the damage to the spark chamber itself appeared to be far less devastating than Elita's had been. "Just a few minor adjustments left," the Medic muttered, nodding neutrally to his three strange assistants.

"Good," growled Megatron, the strain of worry tightening his voice, "Because his spark is starting to go too now..."

"Slag it to the Pit!" the Medic snarled, throwing himself down beside Prime and hastily grabbing a tool. "I'm not _ready!"_

"Should I...?" Megatron left the question hanging, not knowing himself exactly what he'd intended by it.

"Go ahead," replied the Medic, waving a wrench in acquiescence, but not sparing a glance up from his work. "I suppose you know him even better than I do, now." He huffed in disbelief. The world was upside down tonight. "See if you can do anything to stabilize him a bit longer. I need just a few more kliks..."

Megatron nodded curtly, then turned his full attention to the flickering, familiar blue spark. "Hello, Brother," he murmured. "It's me again. Last time it was you who held a hand out to me when I was tumbling alone in the dark. It seems now I'll get to return the favor. Can you trust me to take care of _you_ now?" His voice held a hint of challenge.

The globe of blue light stuttered toward Megatron's heavy black hand, and came to rest in the palm. With just a hint of self-consciousness – for here indeed were two of his own soldiers as well as an Autobot officer, to see the proof of his bond with Prime – the big mech cradled his soul-mate's quivering spark against his thickly-armored chest. In such proximity to a familiar pulse, the blue internal light began to strengthen then, and steady.

"Well done," Megatron remarked, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Now, let's go watch the Docbot save your sorry chassis from the scrapheap, shall we?"

"You speak to them as if they can hear you," observed the Medic with mild interest, as the big mech thumped down beside him.

"What? Don't you?" the Decepticon asked mildly.

"Well yes," Ratchet admitted, his hands busily at work. "But I assumed I was the only one crazy enough to think it might have any effect."

Rumble and Frenzy sidled up to Megatron's side. There they also sat, and watched the Autobot Medic's progress, illuminated by the flashes of the welding torch and the dim pulses of Prime's spark. The only sounds were the crackle of the welder, the clank of the wrench, and the rumble of Megatron's gruff voice as he mumbled threats, cajolements, and promises to the little ball of light which he hugged fiercely to his chest. The blue orb's feeble flashing settled into a steady rhythm, matching the beat that thrummed redly within the heavy silvered torso. But each new pulse was dimmer than the last.

"You'd better hold yourself together now, Prime, or I'll follow you into the All-Spark just so I can slag your aft myself!" Megatron whispered hoarsely to the light-orb in his hands. "I will not let you leave me now! Not when we're so close to achieving this crazy hope of ours."

The spark began to sputter, and, increasingly oblivious to the others around him, Megatron strove with all his power to keep his bond-brother's light from fading altogether. "Come on, Prime!" he shouted. "You've survived worse scrappings than this! You're the one mech we can depend on always to come through, no matter what the odds against you are!" His fingers trembled as he clutched the tiny ball of shivering blue fire. "You deserve to live for a few more vorns in peace, my Brother, after seeing us through so many eons of war. You're a fighter, one of the strongest and bravest I've ever known; and you don't get to give up now. I won't let you get off that easy. Don't you dare die on me, Optimus!"

A red hand fell upon his clenched forearm, and Ratchet's voice broke through the gray mech's rising panic. "We're ready," he said. "It's time."

* * *

_Pain. Numbing, drenching pain. Dim lights, blurring red and blue and white. Voices. Disjointed bits of memory. Who was he?..._

"_E__LITA!"__ The wounded cry scrabbled desperately from Prime's vocalizer, its harsh gurgle sounding alien even to him__._

"_She's safe, Optimus. Don't worry."_

"_We've stabilized her, and with some CR time, she'll be as good as new."_

_He recognized Ratchet's steadying hand as it was laid upon his shoulder. Then other strong arms lifted him from the ground. Who did he know that was capable of carrying him?_

"_I'm just going to put you into stasis now, Big Bot." This was of course from Ratchet._

_But then came another voice, harsh and gravelly; a voice he'd fought and feared for most of his existence. Now, it brought him immeasurable comfort. "It never ends, does it, Brother? Rest now, and prepare for the morning, because tomorrow may turn out to be the most important day of your life..."_

_Ratchet's careful hands now probed beneath his plating, shutting down his systems one by one. Light and sound were quickly fading, leaving in their wake a blessed release from pain._

_Darkness fell on Optimus Prime._

* * *

**A/N: **I know things are kind of intense right now, and you (hopefully!) want to find out what happens to Prime and Elita.

But if you'd also like to learn more about Starscream, and why all this transpired the way it did (and what happens next!) please read my story "Entr'acte" along with this one. The Megatron-Starscream dynamic could not be fully brought out in this main story. But it is very important to the whole. So just... keep _Entr'acte_ in mind, please.

Thank you!


	9. Act IV: MASK

**Act IV **

**Mask**

_**Scene i**_

_**Before...**_

_A preternatural stillness lay across all Cybertron. The deep thud of artillery, the high shriek of small-arms fire, the crackle of laser blasts: all had fallen silent. The planet waited in anxious expectation._

_With a sudden, resounding crack, a little chunk of slag crumpled beneath the crushing weight of a massive, metallic knee. It skittered in a hundred tiny pieces down the rubble-strewn slope. _

_The frozen form of a kneeling mech slipped a little on the suddenly-uneven ground. But its arms were linked with those of another; and although that other mech's shell was also dark and empty, its grip was enough to stabilize the Autobot Commander's abandoned body. _

_The clatter of falling scree faded away, the creak of strained metal subsided; and once again, all was silent. _

_But in that stillness could be heard a vibrant, harmonic hum of energy. Hovering serenely between the encircling arms of the two motionless mechs, a brilliant orb of soft white light pulsed and sang with life. Its brightness was reflected dully in the red and gray armor of the two ancient warriors whose two souls it contained. Occasionally, the lightless optics in their solemnly-bowed heads captured a stray beam, and were illuminated almost as if from within._

_As the stars began to fade with the coming of the dawn, thin ribbons of color appeared within the shining, living sphere. It stretched, dimmed; divided at last into two smaller balls of electric fire: one a dark, angry red, the other a deep, rich blue. _

_Empty casings opened to receive the little lights; and the powerful mechanized bodies drew them deep inside, shielding their precious, life-giving sparks in layers upon layers of protective armament. Galvanized plating snapped into place; conductor cables were connected with whirs and clicks; and the sparks were once again linked up to all the sensors, processors, and servos in the frames which housed them._

_An expectant silence lengthened. The first light of the rising sun reddened the undersides of storm clouds piling up on the horizon. Yet the bodies of the two great mechs remained inert. _

_Then at last two sets of optics ignited, and blazed out across the smoky remnants of the long night..._

* * *

Megatron felt his knees buckle weakly; and he fell forward, catching himself on his hands. From the unforgiving barrenness of perfect sanity, the Decepticon Commander stared out at his future in utter dread. He heaved, purging boiling mech fluid onto the heaps of rusty wreckage around him. The filthy liquid ran downhill, and pooled against the body of his enemy: his bond-brother.

His low voice shook. "I hate you, Optimus Prime. I fragging _hate_ you."

He spat in disgust, and wiped his oil-stained mouth with a trembling hand.

Optimus too had collapsed upon reboot. He lay on his side where he had fallen, rotten bilge churning in his tanks. His scrubbers could not keep up with the massive overflow of toxins in his present emotional response; so his coolant was rapidly becoming septic. He groaned, rolled over, and raised himself onto his hands and knees, his intakes sucking in desperate draughts of air.

"What's the matter with _you?"_ Megatron inquired acidly.

"Drawback... of this... design," the red mech gasped in heavy resignation. "Can't purge..."

The big Decepticon looked down at the Autobot Commander's covered face, and understood. He crawled over to Prime across the rubble, a painful gurgle in each ragged air cycle. "Hold still," he commanded, his voice rasping. "And trust me." Then with merciless efficiency, Megatron tore loose a hose from its connective coupling at the base of the dark blue helm.

Prime jerked away with a startled cry of pain. But after all, it hadn't hurt nearly as much as the corrosive bile which was rapidly eating through his insides did.

"Go ahead." The Decepticon waved a sardonic invitation.

Prime heaved, and gouts of hot, oily muck gushed onto the ground. "I suppose I ought to thank you," he wheezed, wiping at his spattered frame.

Megatron made no reply. With jerking, angry movements, he crimped the end of the tube shut with one hand, then scrabbled around with the other until he found a twisted length of wire. Then he reattached the torn duct, using the rusty wire to stabilize the makeshift connection.

"Find me that disgusting, do you?" he sneered, looking down at the slick splashes of dark liquid.

"Doesn't look as if- you took to me much, either," Prime shot back, his vocalizer hitching as pain shot through his corroded systems.

They glared at each other, two sworn enemies now joined together in the indissoluble bonds of full knowledge.

Optimus pressed shaking fingers against his brow, but could not block out the memories. "How- how did you... _live_... like this?" he shuddered, vents flared, sides heaving. A high whine sounded from within as his systems strained to cycle enough air to relieve the searing heat of his overburdened CPU. "How in Primus' name," he demanded, "Did you _sleep?"_

"Was pretty damned easy," the gray mech retorted hotly. "Right up until now, that is..." He winced, fell onto his side with a little moan, and clutched an arm to his middle as the heat of his core passed the danger point.

"You brown-nosing little _cheat!"_ he snarled, enraged. "Even as Primus's special _pet_, it shouldn't have been possible for you to keep your precious spark so... _pristine_ all this time! There's a fair amount of mech-fluid on your _own_ hallowed hands, you know!" He groaned. "Why should _you_ merit such protection? It's not fair..."

The Decepticon rolled over, glared bitterly out at the rising sun, and cringed. The spark bond had permitted no deception; and as Prime had been revealed to him, so he also had been revealed. Stripped of self-deceit, naked before his mond's eye, Megatron found he could only loathe the mech he had become. And it tore at his pride.

"No," he growled savagely. "I will not live like this."

Megatron dragged his unwilling chassis across the ruined slope, and picked up his enemy's gun. He leaned onto it, centering its end over his spark housing, and reached down for the trigger.

Through the choking fog of memories that were not his own, Prime slowly realized what the other mech was attempting. _"No!"_ he shouted. "Megatron, don't-!"

Optimus scrambled over the tangled debris, cursing the wires which snared his feet, tripping him up, slowing him down. He knocked his rifle away from the big gray mech, and caught him as he fell.

Prime grabbed his longtime opponent by the shoulders, and shook him, hard. "There's more to life than death, Megatron!" Optimus wrapped his arms around his ancient enemy, and held on to him with all his strength. He wanted to comfort the other mech, but found he also craved the warrior's sturdy presence to anchor him against the madness swirling in his own mind. "Please, Megatron." he said simply. "I need you."

"I will never do _anything_ for you again," the big Decepticon spat, twisting instinctively in Prime's grip. "I was an idiotic fool to make this choice! I _hate_ what you've done to me. I would rather have died insane, than be this worthless, crawling thing!" But then, despite his fierce protestations, his body went slack, and he clutched at the red mech with the desperation of the dying. "I hate you, Prime!" he cried. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you..." Megatron pounded his fist again and again against his adversary's armored back until his words, repeated over and over, gradually became nothing more than a mewling cry, devoid of meaning.

"I can take your hatred, Megatron." Prime let the understanding he had gained flow through him, washing away his doubts, and the horror of dark memories from the past. The past was gone. Together, they had now. "Go ahead and hate me," he repeated. "But I know you, Megatron. And I can't help but love you."

The Decepticon's reply was muffled, his tone bitter. "I hate that I love you, too."

* * *

_**Now...**_

_Long Haul stared up at the metallic hummock which rose gently from the edge of the abandoned city. He, the other Constructicons, and every able mech arriving from all the quadrants of Cybertron had been working since before dawn to clear this place, in preparation for the return of their leader this evening. Their __leaders__, he corrected himself grimly. __Plural__..._

_It was just a rumor, of course, that this overlook was the place where the inconceivable event_ _had taken place. Details like location had been absent from any official notice. But as everyone he'd talked to seemed to have heard the same rumor, he was inclined to believe it. What he couldn't quite make himself believe was that Megatron and Prime would have done such a preposterous thing in the first place. Despite – or perhaps because of – his doubts, his optics continually strayed back to the rising slope to the west, as he trundled back and forth, carrying and dumping truckload after truckload of rubble. _

_He was startled when an especially heavy block of scrap was dropped into his truck-bed, and he yelped as it gouged a hole in the side. "Hey, watch it, ya slagging glitch!" he hollered. He risked a partial transformation, in order to take a swipe at Hook with one of his front tires. "Respect your dump-truck, ya fragging aft!" _

_If Hook was surprised at the usually-taciturn mech's sudden outburst, he didn't show it. The engineer merely dodged out of the way, and shot back, "Well, if you'd pay attention, instead of staring off into space like you've been doing all day...!" He wandered off, muttering imprecations against 'mechs who sit around daydreaming while the rest of us do all the __real_ _work...'_

* * *

In a makeshift, mobile medbay, Optimus came online, and immediately let out a groan of regret that he had done so. Here and there, an isolated cog or servo did _not_ feel as if it had been ground up in the recycler. But those few bits only served to make the rest of his aching frame feel that much worse by comparison.

He focused his optics on the dark form leaning over him, and flinched. This time, it appeared, Megatron _was_ in the mood to destroy him.

"You _worthless piece of __**scrap**__!"_ A black fist smashed into his bunk, its trajectory altered at the last possible instant so that it missed his head by a nanometer. Prime's lagging battle computer whined as it tried to force his leaden limbs into some kind of defensive position. But as he could barely move, the only thing this accomplished was to overheat his beleaguered CPU.

"How _dare_ you do this to me?" The big gray mech's vocalizer was crackling with strain. "If you ever try anything like that again, I'll have your pathetic spark put into high-security containment _for the rest of your miserable existence, __do you hear me__?"_

Optimus frantically scanned his memory banks, looking for something that might have set off the angry mech beside him. The last thing he remembered was walking away with Elita...

"Wh- Meg... Megatron – " Talking was surprisingly difficult. His processor seemed reluctant to translate his jumbled thoughts into sensible words, or transmit them to his vocalizer. "You said- You _wanted_ me and Elita to- Are you... _jealous_?" Prime felt he was missing some crucial information somewhere. How in the name of all chaos had he managed to get himself so thoroughly slagged during a spark-bond with his life-mate? It wasn't as if he'd been doing it wrong! The only ones who even knew their location were himself, Elita, and... His thoughts reached an extremely unwelcome conclusion.

"Megatron... _Brother of my spark_... Please tell me you didn't-" Anger flashed within him, though he spoke with deadly calm. With a weakened hand, he indicated his mangled frame, "You didn't have anything to _do_ with... all this_..." _The blue of his optics was ice, as he stared into his bond-brother's red fire. "_...__Did you__?"_

Mid-word, Megatron cut off the furious rebuttal he'd been spluttering against Prime's 'jealous' accusation. Slowly, he lowered his wildly-gesturing hands. They gripped the edge of the repair platform so tightly that the rugged metal creaked. (Ratchet would later find finger-shaped dents in it.) His voice was brittle; and each word biting. "So. Already it comes to this. You, the one mech on Cybertron who claims to believe I can be something other than a murderer... _You_ jump to the conclusion that I had you slagged."

Optimus was silent. He lay still, waiting; which only served to further infuriate Megatron."Did you?" he asked flatly.

"_No!_ I didn't plan for any of this, you slag-sucking pile of scrap metal! I wagered everything I have- Everything I _am_ on this ridiculous enterprise of ours!" Megatron was shouting, his voice raw, his caustic words roughened by pain. "Why would I allow anything to jeopardize what we have done?"

"That's true," the red mech agreed oh-so-calmly. "But how, then, did this happen _on your watch_, Brother?" Optimus was doing his best to control his emotions. But trusting Megatron was proving far more difficult than he had anticipated. "Are you slipping?"

"_Frag you to scrap, Orion!"_ The big mech's crushing grip on the side of the bunk was not enough to still his shaking. "You and Elita are-. I'd actually begun to- Slag me for a struttless ditch crawler, I was letting myself get _attached_..." Abruptly, Megatron lifted Prime by the shoulders, and shook him. "_You traitorous waste of tin!_ You offered me – _Me!_ – the promise of acceptance, love, a family... And then you snatched it all away just as I was reaching out my hand to receive it..."

Prime's vision was filled with firebursts of white and red, his body shot with pain. "_Ouch_, Megatron," he called out sharply, "I thought you wanted me to live!" He regretted his reflexive accusation, but he didn't quite know how to take back the words. "I'm sorry," he said shortly. "I know I ought to trust you, but it's-"

"_Yes you damn well should!"_ The Decepticon threw Prime unceremoniously back onto the repair bunk, fell into a chair beside him, and let his gilded head drop with a clang onto the red chestplates. "Do. Not. Leave me here." With each word, he beat his black fist weakly against the Autobot's front grill. "I don't know how- I just- I can't- _Don't leave me here alone!_"

Optimus could actually hear the rapid pulse of the big mech's ancient spark. He knew all too well that dread, the yawning abyss that stretched out at the feet of any bot who lost a bondmate. The danger was especially great for Megatron, who had risked his standing among the Decepticons, and had yet to earn the confidence of the Autobots.

Prime wrapped a hand around the warrior's corded neck, and tried to slow his shuddering systems. While most mechs were perfectly content to go through their entire existence unbonded, Prime now knew that, like himself, his enemy had never been well-suited to a solitary life. (Despite his protestations to the contrary.)

He patted the other mech awkwardly. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised. "Now, tell me how this happened."

"Starscream," the big mech answered heavily. "Came up through the floor of the room you were in. Shot you and Elita while you were bonded. Was trying to crush your sparks when I walked in. If it hadn't been for Ratchet and the Cassettes-" He broke off with a gasp, as Prime's fingers sank painfully into his armor and the Autobot Commander surged upward.

"_Elita."_ Prime's voice vibrated with anxious intensity. "_Where is she, Megatron."_ It wasn't a question; it was a command.

Mutely, the Decepticon pointed toward the other side of the room.

A painful shudder rattled the red and blue frame. Taut with anxiety, Optimus turned, his optics wide with open fear. He'd just been reassuring Megatron; but now that the abyss of loss gaped at his own feet, he realized the hollow worthlessness of any words of comfort.

When at last he saw Elita, the Autobot Commander fell back onto his bunk with a stifled groan.

She lay under a yellow warming lamp on a repair platform against the opposite wall of the medbay. Scars of all her recent hasty repairs still streaked across her chassis. In her face, he read the stoic acceptance of pain, even though her body appeared to be in full stasis. The blinking readouts on the side of the bunk were too far away for him to see; and at this distance he could not hear any of the tiny, familiar sounds that her systems usually made as they cycled slowly during recharge.

"Elita?" His deep voice trembled. Every line of his frame spoke to a terrible alertness, as he watched his bondmate for some kind of response.

But of course, she could not hear him. Her frame lay still and lifeless on its berth.

The only movement Optimus perceived came from behind him. Megatron had risen quietly. The big gray mech stumped over to the little femme's berth, and began muscling the heavy bunk across the scarred and pitted floor of the dimly-lit medbay. The scrape was harsh and loud in the otherwise empty room. But Elita did not stir, not even when her platform bumped jarringly against Prime's.

Optimus took hold of his lifemate's small, limp hand. He laced her thin pink fingers between his own thick blue ones; then closed his hand around hers as if he would weld them together. He looked up at Megatron. "Thank you," he breathed.

The Decepticon gave a dismissive shrug. He straightened with a tired grunt, stretched, and popped a few misaligned linkages in his suspension back into place. "Your medic swears that, despite appearances, she will recover fully," he said, collapsing onto the old, broken-down seat beside Prime's bunk. His cydraulics hissed as he sagged in the chair and stretched out his legs with a long and weary sigh. Leaning his head against the backrest, the Decepticon set his engines to idle, and shut down his optical array.

* * *

They spent nearly a joor in silence. But Prime had to know. Gently, he nudged his bond-brother. "It's time, my old nemesis," he said. "You'd better tell me about Starscream."

The Decepticon raised burning optics to face the red mech. "I thought he'd come after _me, _Optimus_._ That's what he _always_ did. I didn't realize he might find a much more subtle way-" He turned away, his gilded crest tucked tightly down, invisible. He seemed small without it. "I wonder if he even knew...?" he murmured, as if to himself.

"When you say, 'did,' and 'knew,'" Prime began tentatively, "You don't mean-?"

Megatron interrupted grimly. "Yes. He's dead. I killed him."

Optimus gaped at him in shock.

"_What?_ What was I supposed to do?" the dark mech shouted, in defiance of Prime's stunned silence. "You had even less hope for him than I did, so don't you _dare_ give me that horrified look, you two-faced fragging hypocrite!" He glared down at Prime, but his optics were faded to shadowy pits of emptiness. "He would have found a way to ruin _everything,_ Optimus. Eventually, he would have found a way. I couldn't let him- I couldn't risk-" Megatron reached out, and dropped his hand onto Prime's scarred red chest. The hand curled into a fist, grasping at nothing; and Megatron hunched away, unwilling to meet his new brother's gaze.

Optimus put a calming hand over the black one that tensed against his chassis. "But, Megatron, you must realize–" He fumbled for words. "To take any life, without law... And _now_ of all times–!"

Megatron cut across his faltering words. "I _know_ him, Orion," he declared flatly. "I drove Starscream past the point of no return vorns ago. I made him; I killed him. It was my responsibility; no one else's." He rolled an ankle restlessly, unable to sit still. "Killing him was kinder than keeping him caged in a world he would despise. I had to do it. I had to kill him. Don't make it-!"

He broke off, pulled away from Prime, and plunked his face into his hands. When he spoke again, it was in a hoarse whisper, barely audible: "No matter how many times I tell myself all this, I know that it's a lie. I murdered him to save myself."

As his battered CPU slowly processed the full import of what Megatron had done, Optimus felt his spark begin to twist in painful empathy. But what could he say? There was nothing to say.

He remembered what he'd felt within the gray mech's darkened soul, his horror at the razored strength of the manipulative coils with which the Decepticon leader and his Second had ensnared one another. Theirs was a grotesque parody of friendship: the two flawed mechs each seeking to force the other into being what was needed to fill the clawing emptiness that tore them both apart. For millennia, Megatron had channeled the Air Commander's lusts to bind the seeker ever more tightly to himself; even as Starscream had exploited his captain's misery in his self-imposed seclusion, knowing that even in the face of his habitual treachery, Megatron needed him too much to put him off-line for good.

And yet, it seemed, Megatron had done just that. He had done it to protect Prime. This news went a long way in explaining the big mech's sudden desperate fear of abandonment.

Optimus didn't want such a responsibility. Moreover, running through the pain he felt on his bond-brother's behalf was a needling shame, a sense of personal failure. Deep in his most secret core, he was glad the seeker had been terminated. He hated to admit he was relieved by another's death. But not having Starscream's duplicitous jealousy to deal with would make things so much simpler, going forward.

Prime knew that Megatron would guess these thoughts, and that the knowledge would only add to the big mech's grief.

Wincing, forcing down the groans of pain that rose in his vocalizer, the Autobot Commander lifted himself onto an elbow. Then, with difficulty, he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of his berth. "It doesn't seem fair," he whispered hoarsely to the gray mech huddled in the chair in front of him. "You shouldn't be forced to choose between your Second and your bond-brother." The room seemed to tilt, and he hastily recalibrated his gyros. "But Megatron," he went on, still swaying slightly, "I will _always_ be grateful to you for it, because you saved Elita. I do not know how I would have gone on without her." He leaned forward, and braced a hand on the Decepticon's scarred shoulder. "Thank you," he said fervently, "For _her_ life."

"And..." Optimus paused, ashamed. "Forgive me, Brother, for my lack of faith. I know I should have believed in Starscream. As I believed in you... But he was so- I couldn't see how-" His faltering excuses sounded cheap, insulting. He stopped making them. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, Megatron... For everything. I will mourn his death for your sake."

Megatron huffed, and turned away, dissatisfied.

But Optimus had as usual attempted too much too soon, and he suddenly found he had reached the end of his meager store of strength. His optics widened as his body began to collapse. He was falling; falling off the high berth, down to the hard floor below...

Two sturdy arms caught him, and his enervated frame was steadied against a wide gray torso. "No you don't!" barked Megatron fiercely. "Not after we spent all this time patching you together!"

To his own surprise, Prime felt himself relax against the Decepticon in simple trust. The frantic whine of his servos slowed, and his shaking limbs went limp as he allowed the other mech to take his weight. He could hear Megatron's systems winding down from their fevered pace as well. For a time, the two mechs sank into a simple, wordless communion, each taking comfort in the other's solid presence.

When he could move again, and was beginning to feel a little like himself, Optimus broke the silence. "There's something that you need to know, my friend." He shifted slightly, easing the pressure on strained welds, and spoke with quiet intensity into the other's audial. "You will never, _ever_ have to be alone again. Even if you are the last living Cybertronian on some empty planet at the far corner of the universe, I will still be with you." He gave the other mech an awkward pat. "Always and forever, little bits of me will pop up in your spark when you least expect them." Blue optics twinkled in a gentle smile. "Trust me, Megs, you'll get tired of me long before you ever feel abandoned."

The Decepticon tightened his grip around Prime's red torso. "Call me that ridiculous nickname again, and I'll squeeze," he threatened.

But Optimus only laughed. He was heartened to hear a shadowy return of the old fighter's usual swagger. "Speaking of squeezing, Brother," he said, still chuckling, "It's time to pull ourselves together. We'd never be taken seriously again, if anyone saw us in this ridiculous position."

A burst of laughter echoed from the doorway. "Too late!" crowed a triumphant voice. And Ratchet entered the room.


	10. Act IV scene ii

_**Scene ii**_

Megatron started violently, and shoved the Autobot Commander away from him as if the red mech were infected with scraplets. Optimus fell onto his repair platform in a groaning clash of metal.

"Ratchet, you sneaking little slag-sucker!" the Decepticon swore, "How long have you been spying?"

"Spying is for amateurs," the Autobot doctor retorted. "I'm your Medic. I know all." He strode up to the two mechs, stopping beside his crumpled Commander.

Optimus muttered a few choice words regarding his bond-brother's origin while Ratchet examined the welds on his dented frame. All held sound.

"If it turns out you've damaged your dear brother just now," the Medic glowered at Megatron, "I know you'd be a lot more upset than you'd let on. Of course-" He grinned evilly. "But that's nothing to how you'd feel after _I_ was through with you..."

The white medic shone a blacklight along crisscrossing seams, and tested a few joints. But he seemed satisfied.

"You're fine; quit complaining," he told his CO brusquely. He smacked the two larger mechs heartily. "Silly glitches," he remarked, a fond smile slinking across his face. "I ought to bash your fool heads together."

Optimus winced, "Why is it that the bots who say they want me healed are the ones knocking me around today?" he grumbled.

Ratchet brandished an admonitory finger. "You'd have hardly felt that, if you'd been resting quietly as you know you should. How many times have I told you not to exert yourself until you're fully repaired?"

"Exactly 39,596,482 times, old friend." Prime's optics twinkled.

Ratchet's response was too muffled for them to hear, but perhaps that was for the best. He emerged from the depths of a low cupboard, holding a cylinder of the specialty energon that he and Wheeljack had formulated for emergency transfusions. The stuff was so potent that a few drops could accomplish what it normally took a full cube to do. He hung the glowing container from a hook above the repair berth, and ran a thin cord down from to it.

The Autobot Commander barely twitched as his doctor deftly inserted the transfusion line into his neck.

"It's just as well this damned war is over," the white mech muttered. "It'll take away your last excuse to need this stuff. I was worried you might be growing addicted to it."

Running out of lectures for Prime, Ratchet moved to Megatron's side and put a hand on the Decepticon's scuffed shoulder. "Any other problems while I was away?" he asked.

The big mech flashed a furtive glance at Prime. "Uh, nope. No problems, Doc. It looks like he will live." He grunted. "...As usual."

Ratchet gave the Decepticon a friendly pat. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll still think of you as a monstrous, mech-eating butcher if you want me to. But if you didn't care about him, you wouldn't have called me last night. We all love him; we can't help it." He winked. "It kinda sneaks up on you."

He turned to his Commander, and jerked a thumb back at Megatron. "Prime, this big heap o' slag here hasn't shut down or moved from that chair since we brought you in here over nine cycles ago."

"It was pure self-interest, I assure you," the gray mech growled.

But Ratchet was already ignoring him. With the exultant air of a seasoned general returning victorious from battle, the white Autobot moved briskly through the medbay, confidently gathering instruments from various drawers and cupboards. He placed the tools he'd collected on a wheeled, flat-topped cart, and pushed it over to Prime's and Elita's repair platforms.

Intent on his work as he examined the small femme, the Autobot medic began whistling a simple, almost-forgotten tune from before the war. He ran a scanner down the length of her still frame, nodding to himself as the instrument beeped steadily. His smile broadened as he noticed the way Prime had once again interlaced her fingers with his.

"She's going to be fine," he replied to the unasked question in his commanding officer's intent optics. When Prime looked unconvinced, he added, "Truly, Optimus. There should be no lasting ill-effects. Just give her a little more time to recuperate, old friend." Picking up a long-handled wrench and gesturing with it for emphasis, he added, "And don't fail to grant me the respect that such a miracle-worker deserves!" He tested the tightness of a few bolts in the femme's knee and elbow joints, and suggested, "Remember the bot who saved your sorry afts when it comes time to distribute the high-grade, or the-"

Megatron interrupted him. "I assume you'll be sharing a portion of your spoils with Rumble and Frenzy. Or had you conveniently forgotten them?"

"The Cassettes?" demanded Prime, feeling he had suddenly fallen behind.

* * *

_Back at the Autobots' forward command base near Talus, the two Cassetticons were engaged in a fiercely-competitive game of skill and chance with Smokescreen, Bumblebee, Mirage, and Trailbreaker. The Autobots seated around the table had all sustained wounds during the storm; and since they were unfit to assist in the clearing of the battlefield, they had volunteered instead to keep watch over the still-somewhat-unstable Cassette twins. _

_The two diminutive Decepticons were raised up in their chairs by wobbling stacks of datapads, but they paid no mind to the precariousness of their positions. They shouted taunts at the other players, threw their markers with abandon, and gleefully gathered up armloads of chits when they won._

_And they won often. "It's unfair," Mirage protested in mock indignation, as he lost yet another round. "They have the advantage over us. We've all had ages to learn each other's tells, but we have no practice in reading these two little slaggers!"_

_Rumble chortled gleefully. "That's right, Mr. Shiny-Shafts; practice your excuses!" He reached out toward a stack of orange chits in the middle of the board. _

"_Not so fast, punkaft." Smokescreen flourished a winning combination, grinning wickedly as he spread the cards out on the table. He counted out loud as he moved his piece ahead five spaces. _

"_Laugh while you can, rust-bucket," grumbled Frenzy, passing a disordered mixture of markers, cards, and chits across to the grinning Autobot. _

Laugh while we can, eh?_ he radioed his brother, his dark tone devoid of humor._

'S better than spending our last breems crying in a corner, isn't it?_ returned Rumble with a shrug. _

"_Once again!" He called out to the table full of Autobots. "All in!"_

* * *

"...And so," Ratchet explained, "Those little twerps worked on the fiddly bits that ol' Megsy here was too club-fingered to manage-" (Here he dodged a swipe from a heavy black hand) "...And I soldered you two together as best I could with rust and axle grease, and hoped to Primus it would hold."

The white medic turned to confront the Decepticon Commander. "And now, my friend, it's time for you to relieve yourself of guard-duty." He lifted a peremptory hand, as Megatron rose from his chair to protest. "_No buts_. You've seen for yourself that he's going to live. But _you_ will not be so lucky, if you don't recharge. I don't know what you did to get yourself so thoroughly scrapped yesterday, but when I came in, you looked like warmed-over slag. And it's only gotten worse since then. So no more excuses. You're going to spend a few breems taking care of yourself, or you'll be completely useless for your big presentation this evening."

"What about Elita?" demanded Megatron, just as Prime asked, "What big presentation?"

"She's doing fine_._ But it's possible she'd be disappointed to find you _dead_ when she comes out of stasis_,_" the white Medic warned.

He gestured to his CO to wait a klik for his question to be answered. Then he planted his hands on Megatron's shoulders and began propelling the much larger mech toward a low recharge bunk along the far wall. "Half a cycle," he declared. "Shut down now, or I'll do it for you!"

There was no gainsaying the old white mech. Much to his own surprise, Megatron allowed himself to be pushed onto the bunk. He tried not to show what a relief it was to finally lie down.

Working speedily at a task he'd done countless millions of times, Ratchet checked the connections and adjusted the settings of the power berth's mechanism. "Now, this won't be a standard recharge," he explained. "Thanks to your big announcement, we don't have the time for that. Wheeljack and I worked out an emergency mode for use during battle."

He retrieved the glowing cube from Prime's berth, withdrawing the cord from the Autobot Commander's neck with a muttered, "You've had enough, you big faker."

Back beside Megatron, he spoke jauntily, "On the plus side, you'll be getting some of Prime's _special_ energon. On the minus side..." He shrugged. "You're probably not going to feel so great when you come back online. This charger is configured for Autobots, and although I've done my best to rewire it for you, I make no promises. It's a quick and dirty process; but there isn't time for slow and clean. It'll give you what you need to keep you on your feet, anyway."

"Quick and dirty," the Decepticon growled, "Is something I am _good_ at."

"Well, here's your chance to prove it," Ratchet returned bluntly. He plugged the gray mech into the bunk's power cells, pushed his shoulders firmly down onto the platform, and rapped him sharply on the browplate. "Good _night_," he said with a grim smile.

And Megatron's optics went dark.

* * *

"_What do you suppose they're planning?" Huffer asked apprehensively, as he and Gears prepared to haul away a load of scrap from the battlefield. The two of them turned to stare gloomily up at the now-notorious hillside. Rumors flew; but like the rest of the Autobots without leadership rank, the two small transformers had been give no definite information apart from the two brief messages that had been sent out to 'Bot and 'Con alike. The first had come a few breems after dawn on the day following the Ceasefire: _

_**Attention. All hostilities shall cease from this time forward. Anyone found in breach of this ceasefire shall immediately be put into spark containment. Optimus Prime and Megatron have entered into a permanent truce by means of a spark-bond. They soberly declare that the Great War is ended. **_

_And late last night, a new message had been sent out:_

_**All Cybertronians, regardless of faction, are to assemble at the Talus quadrant in the forth orbit of Tarn. Upon arrival, all able mechs will work to clear the debris from the area, in order to make room for such a large assembly. All those off-world are to return immediately via space-bridge. Those with medical training are to bring their equipment and patients with them to this location, as well. No living Cybertronian is to be absent. At one cycle before sunset, your leaders will initiate the new joint government.**__  
__**-Till All Are One**_

_It wasn't that Huffer wanted the Great War to continue. He hated fighting. But it all seemed so strange, so sudden, so downright impossible. He couldn't believe in it. How could a peace based on the bond of only two mechs possibly hold? "After all," he grumbled to himself, as he glared balefully at a group of Decepticons working a little way off, "It's not as if any of the __rest_ _of us made such a commitment!"_

* * *

Ratchet tapped a gauge on Megatron's berth with his forefinger, and walked jauntily back to Prime. "I've got to be honest, Optimus; it has been odd having him around. Having him _helping..." _

He cracked his knuckles, resetting the joints. "If you'd told me last orbit that I'd be content to leave Megatron alone in my medbay, so he could watch over you and Elita while I caught up on my recharge..." He raised an eloquent brow. "I'd have bet my best high-grade on the impending return of the Chaos Bringer. I mean, what _else_ could possibly bring about such a thing?" He smiled down kindly at Prime. "You never cease to amaze me, my friend."

Ratchet planted his feet, then took a firm grip on his Commander's hand. "Time to sit up, old man."

Prime allowed the medic to pull him upright; then made a few careful movements, testing his body. He still felt awful, but he was growing stronger. "Ratchet," he asked, "Why no C.R.? You know I'm the last to disparage your work, but I would have preferred a few quiet orns in a tank to-" he broke off and winced, gesturing at the welds that criss-crossed his frame, "...All this. What's going on?"

Ratchet shrugged. "I would have liked nothing better than to stick you in a CR tank for the next two weeks myself," he said. "But I didn't have the two weeks."

"That 'big presentation' tonight?" Prime guessed. "So Megatron did try to take over the planet without me?"

"He didn't have time to try it. He was too busy sobbing over your battered corpse."

Ratchet drew out a handful of tools from a drawer, and dropped them onto a tray with a clatter. "But he did tell Prowl and Shockwave that you two would resume command tonight." He shuffled noisily through the clattering pile of instruments, and selected a long-handled spanner. "They'd started pestering him about the troops growing restless." He shrugged. "How was he to know..."

The white medic selected a spanner, and hitched a rolling stool over to Prime's right side. "Anyway, under the circumstances, it didn't seem prudent to broadcast the fact that you and Elita had been so seriously injured. So I patched you up the old fashioned way."

Activating a little spotlight on the side of his head, the Autobot lifted his leader's right arm, and examined the mechanism of the shoulder joint. "How does this feel?" he asked, tapping the spanner on a newly-repaired linkage.

"No worse than any other piece of me feels," Optimus replied, grimacing.

Ratchet chuffed. "After you sort all the slag out tonight, I'm throwing the _three_ of you into the tanks just to make certain you finally heal. And I'm not taking no for an answer. But for now, you're going to have to make do with a weld-and-wire patch job."

Optimus gradually settled into the routine of examination. He activated servos when Ratchet told him to, but otherwise sat still and let his mind wander. A thoughtful quiet settled over the two veteran mechs.

"I'd really like this to be the last time that I'm called on to repair battle wounds, Prime," Ratchet murmured after a while. His words were distorted by the drill bit he'd stuck in his mouth for safekeeping.

"So do I, old friend," the red mech replied. "Fervently!"

He'd been staring down at his open right hand. Suddenly he noticed that the blue paint was worn off on the inside surfaces of the thumb and palm, where the grip of his gun so often rested, and on his forefinger, where it would be poised against the trigger. He looked closer. It wasn't only the paint; his hand had actually been molded by the gun handle. The mech and the tool had worn into each other. It was an unpleasant reminder of how long he had been at war. Yet despite that he'd always claimed to be a peaceful being. Now who was he trying to fool?

"Ratchet?" he asked, his voice low and uncertain. "Do you think I can ever be anything but a soldier?"

The white Autobot set down the wrench he'd been using, and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you talking about, Optimus?" he asked.

"I finally have a real chance to win the peace that I've spent my entire life fighting for..." Prime stopped, and chuckled dryly. "_Fighting for peace. _Such impossible nonsense. And yet," he went on, his focus returning to Ratchet, "Now that it is at last within my grasp, I feel unsuited for it somehow. Perhaps it all comes down to programming." He sighed. "All those long vorns ago, I was _built_ to be a soldier. I think I've forgotten how to be anything else." He straightened out his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head, stretched, and popped an errant back-strut with a groan. "I think I'm going to have to reformat myself, somehow..."

Ratchet considered his friend thoughtfully. "We all have a lot of changes to make, Optimus. I don't think that the future you want will allow any of us to remain the same mechs we have been up to now." He dropped his arms to his sides, and blew out a hiss of air from his vents. "Quite possibly, that is a _good_ thing..."

The CMO rose, lifted an extendable backrest out of the stool he'd been using, then flipped it around and sat down on it backwards, with his arms folded across the narrow, curved bar. "I think we've all been a little bit warped by this war," he said. "I don't think any one of us has kept much of the programming we were formed with. I'm certainly not the same mech I was when I was created." Ratchet's optics dimmed in memory. His face was grave, and even a bit wistful.

Prime looked across at the medic, and remembered the days long ago – so long ago that he could hardly recall them – when the medibot had been the lively focus of most of the high-spirited gatherings in their social group. "I do miss your laugh, Ratchet old friend," he said. "I'd almost forgotten. But it was good to see you smile today."

Ratchet shrugged. "Yes. It felt good to have something to smile about." He quirked a sardonic brow. "Even if it was over the welded-together bodies of two of my closest friends."

Optimus slammed a fist against the bunk he was sitting on. "We _must_ make this work, Ratchet! I do not believe we will be given another chance, if we foul this one up."

His optics burned bright in concentration. "I need to make some sort of _sign_," he said thoughtfully. "Something... not only to remind everyone around me that things must change, but to remind _myself_ as well. Something to remind me of the mech I was meant to be, before everything got twisted in this blasted war..."

Suddenly he lifted his head, and his gaze glittered fiercely across at the medic. "Ratchet! What about-"

His optics flickered, as uncertainty began to cloud his conviction. "Ratchet," he began again, "Do I... Do I by chance have a functioning mouth underneath this faceplate?"

Ratchet burst out laughing. "You have to _ask__?_" he chuckled.

"I never needed to know before!" Prime remonstrated. "It wasn't important! I always assumed a working mouth was surplus to requirements! Especially..." His voice dropped, "After I received the Matrix and was reformatted as the Prime..."

Ratchet's face grew serious once again. "Yes Optimus," he replied. "You do have a mouth." With friendly chastisement he added, "I've had to piece your head back together enough times to know."

Prime leaned back. "I thought you might."

The Autobot Commander sat still, as if frozen."I wonder if I can-" He hesitated. "I don't know if-"

"Is that the sign you're considering, then, old friend?" Ratchet interrupted, his voice full of compassion.

The red mech did not reply. He sat for three full kliks without moving a servo.

Then, "Do it," he ordered.

In a rapid, decisive movement, Optimus lay back onto his repair berth. He took hold of Elita's hand, tilted his head back, and shut down his optics.

* * *

Ratchet took up a laser scalpel in his hand, and looked down at the waiting Prime lying still – too still; the Medic could hear his Commander's servos whining in tension, and knew that Optimus was not as quiescent as he appeared. "Last chance to back out, old man," he said kindly. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

The tall mech's optics twinkled to life for an instant, and squinted up at the white Autobot in what was, for Prime, a smile. "Do it, my friend," he said. "Before I have the chance to change my mind."

* * *

_Blaster had worked hard for four cycles, and was now bent on enjoying the short time he'd been given to rest and refuel. Passing the door to one of the anterooms of this makeshift base, he was surprised to hear a rush of laughter coming from within. He paused, and backtracked to the open doorway. His jaw dropped. _

"_I'm crushed." The orange Autobot made his entrance with one hand pressed theatrically over his 'wounded' spark. "Crushed**,** I tell you," he repeated. "Here you all are, holding the first Bot-Con union party of the New Era, and I wasn't invited?" _

_Bumblebee laughed, and waved him in. _

_Still feigning indignation, the communications specialist grabbed an empty chair, and flopped into it with a huff. He threw one foot up onto his knee, and waved an arm dramatically. "It's not a party until I by-Primus say it's a party," he growled, glaring at each of the mechs at the table in turn. He waited, holding their attention like a magnet. _

"_Now it's a party," he declared. And he began playing thumping techno music through his speakers, ignoring Mirage's pained expression. _

"_So kind of you, your Party Czar-ness," Rumble chuffed. "Now can we get on with this round, please? I'd like to finish trouncing you all again."_

_Blaster scooted his chair up behind the two Cassetticons, to where he could peek over their shoulders at their holdings. "I won't give away your next move," he assured them. "I just wanted to know if you two were as good at cheatin' your way through this slaggin' game as Eject and Rewind are."_

_Rumble snorted. "You kidding? We practically invented this game. Should have, anyway. Could have..." _

"_Point is," cut in Frenzy, "We're, like, geniuses when it comes to this game."_

"_Yeah. Watch closely, an' ya might learn something," Rumble finished, fanning his cards with a flourish. "We could teach Primus himself a thing or two."_

* * *

The first thing Elita became aware of was the familiar pressure of her bondmate's well-worn fingers against her own. As her audios rebooted, she began to hear the sharp clink of tools against metal, and the steady, trusted voice of Ratchet. He was speaking too softly for her to catch the words, but this did not trouble her. Optimus was with her. She felt safe.

Time passed. In mild curiosity, she increased the sensitivity of her receptors so that she might listen in on the conversation taking place next to her.

"You do realize that Elita's probably gonna throw a rod." That was Ratchet. What might she have to be so upset about?

Optimus's reply was indistinguishable. His usually robust voice was strangely muffled.

But the pink femme couldn't seem to force her sluggish processor into being too concerned about whatever it was the two mechs were talking about. If necessary, she'd 'throw a rod' later, when she had the strength.

Ratchet's voice again: "Stupid mech. Forever charging ahead, and be damned to the consequences..."

This pronouncement was interrupted by a heated, though inaudible, rebuttal from Prime.

"The _personal_ consequences, then, you ridiculous hunk of scrap. I do realize that you care very much about the big picture, Optimus."

Elita lit up her optics, and turned her head in time to see the Medic place a delicate tool carefully onto a tray, and straighten up with a hissing release of cydraulics.

"I'm finished," he said.

The white mech stepped back, and dropped something small and silver onto Prime's boxy red chest. Her optics were still too blurred from reboot to see it or her bondmate clearly. "There it is, Sir." There was a strange, heavy note in the white mech's world-weary voice.

Optimus picked up the object with slow care. To the watching Elita, his movements seemed unexpectedly tender, yet also strangely fearful. She saw him put a hand up to his face, and move his fingers over it in careful exploration.

"What do I look like?" he asked with uncharacteristic apprehension.

Ratchet shrugged, and gestured toward a polished counter-facing along the far wall. "See for yourself."

Optimus rose haltingly, and limped away across the room, where he bent down to examine his reflection in the chrome. The pink femme watched her bondmate's powerful shoulders rise in a long intake of air, then hunch in awkwardly.

"Well, it's done," he said flatly. "I just hope Elita will understand."

Though her voice was still raspy and garbled with static, Elita summoned the energy to ask, "What do you hope I'll understand, Optimus?"

Both mechs spun around at the unexpected sound.

"Elita! You're online!" cried Optimus, overjoyed.

And as the pink femme watched, Prime's unmasked mouth split into a broad grin.

* * *

_The challenge had been heard, and Blaster's two mech-formed Cassettes were signaling frantically to their guardian. The little bots demanded that he let them out to answer for themselves. _

"_All right, you two, stop yer yammerin'." Blaster had barely opened his chest compartment before Eject and Rewind jumped free. _

"_Let us in on this action," the black and white Cassette demanded, looking up at the circle of mechs seated around the table, his hands on his hips. Rewind glared at the two Decepticons, his optics crackling fire behind his visor. _

_Meanwhile, Eject had clambered up onto the table and plunked himself down on one corner, startling Trailbreaker into laughter. "Y'all ready for this?" he called, as Blaster pumped up the volume on a piece of high-energy Earthling music that had often been played at the beginning of sporting events. "Game on!" _

_But then, without a whimper, Frenzy slumped sideways in his chair. _

_His head cracked sharply against the table's edge, as his small, limp body tumbled to the floor. _


	11. Act IV scene iii

_**Scene iii**_

Prime dropped the facemask he'd been holding, and ran stumbling across the room to his bondmate. He lifted her in his arms and cradled her to him. Then with tender hands, he touched the many welds that criss-crossed her light chassis, testing each seam's strength.

When he was satisfied that she was healing as well as could be expected, he let himself fall down onto her berth, and buried his face gratefully in her neck. Her smooth, cool plating felt strange against the untarnished sensors of his lips and chin. His new-found mouth opened in a soft, wordless cry of losing, finding, and relief.

"Optimus..." Gently, Elita pushed him away, and stared at his denuded face. For a long, long moment, she was silent. "Why?" she asked at last.

Prime's lips twitched in an awkward smile. "You think I look like an idiot."

"Well, if you want an honest answer, _yes_." She searched his face, her brows knit in confusion. "What were you trying to prove, my love?"

"You're in for it now, Big Bot," Ratchet intoned. "I think I'll exit the war zone while I can. But don't be too hard on him Elita," he admonished kindly. He smiled with affection on his two patients. Then he sauntered out of the Medbay, singing the prewar song again, and swinging his stride in time to the beat.

* * *

"Do you think I made a mistake?" asked Optimus. Looking into his bondmate's staring optics, he'd suddenly felt very foolish. And her reaction, he realized with chagrin, was only the first of many he'd have to face up to during the next few days. "I suppose we could have Ratchet put it back..."

"Sshhh!" The pink femme placed a peremptory finger lightly against his lips. Then, her optics flickering intently back to his, she slowly traced the contours of his mouth, his chin, his nose, his cheekplates.

It was a thoroughly unremarkable face, one that inspired none of the awe that the Autobot leader's mere presence usually commanded. She hadn't realized how much the mask added to the aura of grandeur that usually surrounded her bondmate – how much it helped to set the Prime apart. Without it, he was just another mech: larger than most, but otherwise unremarkable.

He began to squirm beneath her touch. "Stop that, 'Lita!" He grabbed her hands. "Tickles," he explained gravely, trying to control the lopsided grin that kept on twitching at the corners of his mouth.

His smile was infectious. She gave in to it, allowing it to be reflected in her own face. She hooked a finger around his left audial antenna, and pulled it down until it was next to her mouth. "I remember you," she whispered. Her lips brushed against the dark blue helm as she spoke his long-forgotten name. _"Orion."_

Optimus tightened his arms around her. "Orion and Ariel," he whispered. "How in blazes have we managed – a common clerk and a newling femme – to masquerade as commanding officers all this time?"

Elita One shrugged. "At spark, I feel as if I'm that same impetuous young Ariel, but in disguise; wondering in panic how I'm supposed to run my special ops team and keep them all alive..."

Optimus cradled her head in a strong hand. "I know," he said. "But dearest..." and here his voice grew sad. "I'm _not_ Orion Pax any more. I don't think I even _want_ to be. He was so ignorant, so naive. He wasn't fit to lead a pack of petro-rabbits, let alone lead all of Cybertron."

"Now, now, you weren't as bad as all that," Elita interrupted in good humor. "Almost," she added, grinning mischievously. "But not quite!"

"It doesn't matter who I was," said Optimus with resignation. "I don't think I could stop being the Prime now, even if I wanted to. It's become part of my core programming. This is who I _am_ now. I may occasionally doubt my abilities, but I can't imagine myself abandoning this assignment."

Elita snorted. "Can't stand the idea of handing this responsibility over to anyone else, is what you mean. Look how hard it was for you to leave Megatron in charge, even though it was only for a few breems!"

"In my defense, it was _Megatron_." Prime remonstrated. "Besides," he added, "Look what happened! Everything went all to slag!"

Elita sighed softly through her vents, but the sound was broken by tiny stutters of pain. Optimus peered down at her in concern, but Elita refused to let him get sidetracked. She lifted his chin in her fingers. "You trap yourself in this role, Optimus. But there are others who would fill it adequately, despite what you believe. Make sure that this is what you want to do, not something you tell yourself you _must_ do."

The old red mech dropped his head, resting his brow against hers. "I'll try to remember that, my dear," he murmured.

Elita reached up to touch his exposed face again. "Now, do you want to tell me why put your discarded identity on display, if you're unwilling to go back to it?"

Optimus laughed. "I think I had some crazy idea that by changing my face I could somehow change the future..."

He bowed his head over her two hands, her fingers clasped between his own. "And Elita," he went on, his voice sinking lower, "I think I need some kind of tangible reminder that all of this is real. I need something to reassure me every time I come online that this is not just another dream, doomed to melt away into nothing..." He looked down into her small, intent face, and felt increasingly foolish. "It did seem like a good idea at the time..."

Elita laughed at his childlike earnestness. But she thought for a while about what he'd told her; and finally, she nodded. "I agree that we could all use a visible reminder that things have changed. It's not perfect. Maybe it's even a little silly. But all-in-all... Yes Optimus. I think perhaps you're-"

"Gonna fragging _murder_ that smelter-spawn of a medic!"

There was a crash, a slither of falling cables, and the slam of metal on metal. Megatron had come online.

"_'Battle recharge'_, he says! _'Keep me on my feet'_, he says!" The big Decepticon was waging a bitter war against the apparatus he'd been lying upon. He ripped out power cords from his arms and torso, throwing them onto the floor in tangled heaps. A few sparked feebly.

At the sound of the commotion, Ratchet came running into the medbay. "_'I can do quick and dirty,'_ you said," he chided sternly. "Look at what you've done to my best charger!" The Medic bent to untangle the mess of cords, grumbling to himself.

"I can also do _torture_." Though shaking and still unsteady on his feet, Megatron grabbed the Autobot by the throat, and lifted him up so that he dangled several feet off the floor. "And as an authority on the subject, let me assure you that this machine is _highly effective_ in producing pain." He spat. "And yet you call yourself a _medic!"_

"Megatron, _wait_-" Optimus was on his feet, swaying; and Elita was crawling off of her bunk toward the precarious tableau.

But Ratchet waved them sternly back. He grinned cheekily up at Megatron. "Don't like your medicine?" he quipped, a challenge in his sharp blue optics. "Not tough enough to take it without complaining?"

Megatron set him down slowly, and loomed over the smaller Autobot, his scowl mere inches from the medic's persistent grin. He bit off each word with malice. "I feel like a hundred tons of slag have fallen on me. My gyros are destabilized. I'm fighting the urge to purge my tanks all over the floor of your precious medbay. _And_-" His optics flickered suddenly up over Ratchet's shoulder, and he sagged a little in sudden confusion. "Optimus?" he choked. "You idiot! What the _frag_'d you do to your face?"

The Autobot Commander limped over, and retrieved his mask from where he'd dropped it on the floor. "Here," he said, dropping the little piece of shaped metal onto Megatron's uncertain palm. "My gift to you," he proclaimed, imitating the Decepticon's dramatic style.

Megatron forgot his anger at Ratchet, lowering him weakly to the floor as he stared down at the small thing in his hand. His gilded brow furrowed, and he raised his head to look again at the tall red Autobot. Then a slow grin spread across his face. It was answered by one from Prime.

"Well! Scrap me and sell my lugnuts!" the Decepticon exclaimed. He threw an arm across Prime's shoulders, drawing him in; and punched him not-quite-gently-enough in the abdomen. "I never would have thought you'd do something like this, you corroded old rust-bucket!" He peered sternly into the kindly blue optics. "Just as long as this isn't some ridiculous guilt-driven response to the helmet thing, Op's..."

The big Autobot lifted a shoulder. "Well, maybe a little," he said, with a crooked grin. "You know me..." He pushed Megatron's arm away, and rubbed his middle, grimacing. "Change just seems to be the thing to do, lately; and I thought I'd join in," he teased. "And I thought, if _you_ were willing to change so much, it was only fitting that I should, too. Or at least," he amended, "I felt I ought to demonstrate to everyone that I'm willing to try..."

"And possibly you couldn't handle the thought of that crest of his stealing the spotlight, dear," a winsome voice put in from the repair bunk.

A subtle change came over the silver-gray mech, and he moved quickly around Prime to where Elita sat watching them from her bunk. "Glad to see you're returning to full functionality again, my dear," he proclaimed haughtily. But then he reached out, and brushed a knuckle down her cheek, all trace of pretense gone. "You had me worried, little one," he murmured.

Elita smiled. "I'm a whole lot tougher than I look, Megatron."

"And a good thing, too!" retorted the gray mech, sounding almost angry.

But Elita wasn't listening. She was looking up at him intently. "I need to tell you something," she declared. But she didn't seem certain how to begin. Finally she started, "I don't know if you... found out, or not, when you-" She tilted her head in Prime's direction, and lifted a shoulder awkwardly. It was still uncomfortable for her to speak of the bond between the gray Decepticon and her Optimus. "But my spark- I can sense others' energy, even without my body's receptors to help me. So, I-" she lowered her gaze. "I know what happened, Megatron. I know what you did for us. I know..." she hesitated. "I am aware of what you sacrificed. I... felt him die. I'm sorry..." She reached a hand out toward him, but stopped, glancing up at him uncertainly. Coming to a decision, she said firmly, "I'm glad we have you, Megatron." And Elita pressed her whole palm against Megatron's gray chest in the sign of bonding. He wasn't her sparkmate. But he was family.

An expression came over Megatron's face which hadn't been seen there since his newling days. The old warrior enveloped her hand in both of his, overcome with astonished gratitude. He sank down beside her, and wrapped his arms around the little femme. And for once in his life, he said nothing at all.

Watching them, Optimus felt his spark would burst with love. He bent down, and laid his cheek against Elita's smooth white one. "_I love you, Ari,"_ he whispered. "_Thank you."_ He stretched out his arms to hold them both – his sparkmate and his bond-brother – and in this single, shining moment, he was utterly fulfilled.

"I think," said Ratchet lightly, "That this is as close as we'll ever come on this side of the All-Spark to 'Till All Are One,' Optimus." He found himself wishing he had someone to hold, too; lately it seemed like the thing to do.

Elita reached out a hand, and squeezed his worn red one. "Thanks, Doc," she said, smiling kindly. "We none of us would still be here without you."

"A fact I'd like to remind you of, so that you'll listen when I tell you that it's time for you to rest!" he responded shortly. But his bright blue optics were soft.

The Autobot and Decepticon Commanders helped Elita lie back on her berth, and she laughed at the unaccustomed attention. "Silly boys!" she murmured warmly, as she pressed black fingers in her left hand, and blue ones in her right.

"Now Megatron," she admonished with mock severity, "You'd better turn around and thank Ratchet for throwing you in the charge machine of death, so that you could be alive for me to thank you." Tired, but content, she shut down her optics, and sank into a light, healing shut-down.

Megatron rose, stretched, turned, and reset his heavy shoulders. "I've decided I won't murder you after all, Medic," he said. He'd tried his best to growl menacingly, but the effect was undermined by the treacherous smile that kept tugging at one corner of his mouth. He extended a hand to the white Autobot. "No hard feelings?"

Ratchet took the Decepticon's large black hand in his own. "No hard feelings," he returned promptly. "Besides," he added with a mischievous grin, "There were twelve or thirteen ways I could have shut you down almost instantly, with you holding me up in such easy reach of all your servos."

Megatron gaped at him.

Ratchet burst out laughing at the Decepticon's comical incredulity, and clapped a hand on the startled mech's shoulder. "_Never_ underestimate a medic!" he advised with dark conviction. "And do not tempt me to demonstrate my powers!"

The Medic extended the first two fingers of his right hand, and touched them to his own chestplate. Then he held the fingers up toward Megatron. "Friends?" he asked, and touched the thick gray chestplate in the ancient sign of loyalty.

Megaton looked shocked. Then he grinned mischievously. "Well I'll be slagged," he chortled warmly. "If I'd known popularity was this easy to come by amongst you Autobots, I would have changed my strategy to infiltration vorns ago!" He touched two fingers to his own chestplate, and then to Ratchet's. "Friends," he promised. "Slagging smart-aft."

* * *

"_Friends." Bonecrusher spat the word. The green bulldozer rammed his blade into the base of a ruined wall. It teetered, collapsed slowly, and landed with a tremendous clatter in a cloud of dust. He coughed to clear his intakes, transformed, and began lifting the larger chunks into Long Haul's truck-bed. _

"_Do they actually believe we'll all just __get along__ now?" he demanded. "Invite each other over for energon on our off-shifts, and such?" He glared down the along rubble-choked street. A short way off, the Autobots called Grapple and Hoist were tearing down the remaining walls of other bombed-out buildings. Judging from the yellow crane's pained yammering, Grapple was probably lamenting the destruction of some structures which he'd designed himself. _

_Bonecrusher ground his dentals. In a high, mocking tone, he fluted,"Why hello, Grapple. Hello Hoist. Would the two of you fancy a cube of my finest high grade after we finish here tonight?" The gruff Constructicon slammed a last armload of scrap into the silent dump truck, and spat out a mouthful of dust. "Not slagging likely!" he finished hotly._

"_Don't worry," put in Mixmaster. He'd come up bearing an awkward stack of broken beams, and was relieved to drop them into Long Haul's box. "There's no way that this so-called 'cease-fire' can hold out for very long."_

"_It can't fail soon enough for me." Bonecrusher clenched a fist, and turned a threatening glare on the two Autobots down the street. "I can't wait to get back to scrapping those idiots."_

"_Not me," said Scrapper quietly. He'd joined the group, unnoticed. _

"_Don't get me wrong," the front-end loader went on, seeing the others' shocked expressions. "I like 'devastating' the Autobots as much as you do. But you have to admit it would be nice to build something that wasn't going to get blown up after a few cycles. Just for once." _

_When the other Constructicons continued to gape at him, he lifted his head in challenge. "What? I'm just saying! Get back to work!"_

* * *

Megatron picked up Prime's cast-off faceplate, and looked down thoughtfully at the it. Then his optics flared, and he grinned his old, conniving grin. "Optimus," he said, "I've got an idea." He checked his internal chronometer. And I might even have time for it, too." He peered across at the red mech. "Are you certain you're not going to change your mind and want this thing back?"

Prime shrugged. "Can you think of any reason why I should?" He tried not to sound too hopeful.

Megatron chuckled. "No such luck, my friend." He closed his hand around the mask. "You Autobots have never understood the importance of using the right propaganda," he declared. "And trust me, in this case, we're going to need the best." He brandished the small piece of metal. "I think you've just given me the key." With that enigmatic statement, he turned, and charged out of the room.

"What the slag are you planning?" Prime shouted after him.

"I'll meet you on the hill in six breems!" the gray mech called back from down the echoing hallway. The three Autobots heard the outer door slam shut, and the ignition of their one-time enemy's thrusters as he took flight.

* * *

_Chairs clattered to the floor unheeded, as every Autobot in the room jumped to his feet. _

_Rumble dropped clumsily to the ground beside his twin, and lifted the red and black body in his arms. "Wait for me!" he pleaded, rocking back and forth in terrible resignation. "We were gonna go out together, remember? Together!" He shook the little mech. "Don't leave me here alone!" _

_Trailbreaker was the first to come to his senses. He radioed a terse distress call to Ratchet. The others crouched uneasily beside the pint-sized purple mech, some making tentative offers of help. _

"_Slaggit, I don't want them to go out now!" hissed Smokescreen. "Primus knows we've fought the pesky twerps for vorns, but- Not like this," he finished lamely._

"_If I find out that an Autobot did this, I swear to Primus that there will be retribution," Mirage hissed, glaring around at the other bots in the helpless, nervously shifting circle. They gaped at him, surprised at the rough anger in his usually well-modulated voice._

"_No one fouled him." Eject was jittery, his light voice cracking with unease. "He just went down... down for the count..." The idioms of Earth-sports that he liked to use all failed to convey what he was feeling. _

_Rewind was pacing in front of Blaster, each rapid step punctuated by the beating of his small fist against his forehead._ "_I know I have some relevant information buried somewhere in my memory banks..." he wailed._

_Blaster crouched on his haunches so as to be at eye-level with his blue and black Cassettes. His every servo whined with pent-up energy. But he had no more idea of what to do than Eject did. _

_In his helplessness, he began to be annoyed by all the fidgeting of his Cassettes. He was just about to tell the two of them to do their jittering in subspace, when an idea struck him. _

"_Rewind," he asked. "Could Frenzy's collapse have something to do with Soundwave's death?"_

_The little black and white mech froze mid-step, his right foot still hanging in the air. "That's right. They have no guardian now." His optics dimmed as he scrolled through the vast collection of data which clogged his micro-processor. After a long moment, he set his hovering foot down with deliberate care, and turned to look up at Blaster. "They have no Guardian," he repeated, stunned. "No home. No resting place. No way to replenish their life-force. Without Soundwave-" He shrugged, and left the sentence unfinished._

"_But it's not slagging fair!" wailed Eject. Then suddenly he gasped. The little mech put a hand on his Carrier's bent knee; and with a voice quivering with earnest intensity, he asked, "Could we recruit them, coach?"_

_Blaster fell back in astonishment. It was an almost unseemly suggestion. Yet suddenly, here and now, it seemed so fitting... _

_He turned to Rewind. "Can it be done?" he asked. _

"_It's possible," the little Cassette nodded. _

_Blaster's optics dimmed as he posed the question to his other charges. Ramhorn and Steeljaw were still resting in his subspace, and knew only that their carrier was troubled. But they quickly gave their answers, once the situstion was explained. _

"_All right," said Blaster. "Let's try it!"_

_The Autobot communicator sat carefully down beside Rumble, who seemed oblivious to his presence. Wishing to keep their conversation private in that circle of curious onlookers, he radioed his words directly into Rumble's receiver._

He's dying isn't he?

_Rumble merely clutched his twin more tightly, crooning softly to him._

You are too. You've lost your guardian.

What's it to you, Autobot?_ came the reluctant, angry reply._

The Cassettes and I... We were wondering if you'd accept the offer of a substitute.

_It took a few kliks for the distraught Rumble to process what Blaster had said. The purple Cassetticon looked up at him then, shocked. He was touched in spite of himself, enough that he spoke out loud. "Wait," he fumbled. "Are you saying- Are you offering to-?"_

"_We are."_

_Eject put out a tentative hand, and touched Rumble's hunched shoulder. "Please," he begged, all traces of his usual exuberance gone. "We don't want you to die." _

_Rumble bent down to his twin. The two small mechs seemed to share an instant of wordless communication. Then Frenzy's lips twitched in an almost inaudible whisper. "Do it," he breathed._

"_Very well." Rumble gave a brusque nod. "We accept." The little 'Con stood, still bearing his brother in his arms, and swaying with the effort of it as his own strength drained away. "But we'll never call you 'Boss,'" he declared without emotion. "Our Boss is dead. _

"_And we ain't gonna become no slaggin' Autobots, either," he added, with a pale return of his familiar cheekiness. "And you're not allowed to parade us around as some kinda symbol either, even if this stupid ceasefire somehow holds." He glared up at the tall red-orange bot. "Ya got all that?" he demanded. _

_Blaster nodded._

"_Right then." The purple Cassetticon took a few steps forward, and collapsed onto one knee. He looked up at the circle of watching Autobots, and swore. "Looks like you'll have to carry us," he apologized. "Don't think I can even trans-"_

* * *

Ratchet was ready for them when the medbay door burst open. He'd summoned Wheeljack and Hook, trusting the inventor to find a way around the obstacles he was certain they would face, and hoping the Constructicon would have an insight into the Cassettes' systems which he'd never had access to himself.

They laid the two brothers side by side on the same emergency recharge bunk which Megatron had so recently vacated, with Ratchet swearing all the while at the mess the big Decepticon had made of his equipment. From what Prime could gather, they meant to reconfigure the charger to provide a kind of life-support to the Cassettes, while the engineers made adjustments to the two mechs' structures which would make it possible for Blaster to take them into his own subspace.

"What can I do?" Prime asked urgently, rooting through a tangle of charge-cable in search of the plug-end.

"You can slagging well keep out of our way," shot Ratchet shortly, as he snatched the cord from his CO with barely a glance. "Just sit over there and... I don't know; plan tonight's speech, or something!"

Feeling somewhat frustrated, Optimus nonetheless sat down obediently on a low seat against the wall. He watched, blue optics alight, as Autobots and Decepticons together labored to save the two small Cassettes.

It was messy: tempers flared as shoulders bumped, and there were a few instances of potentially disastrous miss-communication. Yet even so, Prime recorded the images in his permanent memory. This, right here tonight, was what he had fought for so long to achieve. By Primus, they were learning to work together! Hope flared in his spark. Maybe they'd be able to pull this off after all.

The Autobot Commander watched the fumbling commotion of the present, and imagined the possibilities of the future. And yes – he started working on his speech.


	12. Act IV scene iv

_**Scene iv**_

"That's it," said Hook with finality. "It'll work, or it won't; but there's nothing more we can do."

He turned to frown at the two Autobots who'd labored alongside him to refit the little Cassetticons, and crossed his arms. "Now, just to make sure we understand each other," he growled, "I don't want any _problems_, if these two frag your stupid bot's circuits, when he tries to incorporate them into his systems.

Wheeljack responded with a shrug. "I'm just hopin' I've configured the power adapters correctly, and that Rumble an' Frenzy here won't be blown to scrap when they get their first jolt o' Blaster's energy," he said. "No hard feelin's if that happens, either, got it?"

"All right, you two, time to transform," Ratchet commanded.

Their movements were much slower and more awkward than usual, due to the unfamiliar alterations in their design. But the two Cassetticons carefully folded themselves into their tape modes, and lay on the repair platform, waiting. Blaster would perform the final integration himself, sensors on high alert for incompatibilities.

Rumble volunteered to go in first. "I'm in better shape than Frenzy, so I have a better chance of surviving if it all goes to the Pit," he'd said flatly.

Blaster picked up the purple Cassette, and hesitated. "Here goes nothing," he muttered. Only Ratchet had ever heard the normally cocksure mech sound this nervous before.

Blaster opened the door of his chest compartment, slid the Decepticon tape into the deck, and carefully shut him inside.

The only sound in the room was the slow, insistent beeping of a monitor.

They waited for a few tense, but uneventful kliks. Then Blaster lifted the red and black Cassette, and placed him inside the compartment as well. And still, the cortex monitor's rhythm never changed, and the needle of the ohmmeter did not move.

Neither did Blaster. He was almost afraid to. It felt strange, but not unpleasant, to have the little 'Cons inside his subspace. It was like getting used to a new frame modification: a strange one, like having a third arm grafted on. But it wasn't bad. And it might prove to be a lot of fun. _Uh... is everyone all right in there?_ he asked his amalgamated new team. A smile spread slowly across his face, as he received his answers; and he sat down with relief upon a berth.

"It looks like this is going to work after all," he told the trio of expectant mechs.

Then he glanced down at his yellow chest in sudden apprehension, "Of _course_ you can't use blasters! What kind of an idiot do you take me for? _Don't you dare answer that, Rumble! _If you must wrestle, you can slagging do it on the _outside!"_

The medbay was suddenly overflowing with what seemed like sixty, rather than six Cassettes. All were grinning hugely and calling one another highly creative and uncomplimentary names. Steeljaw had hold of Frenzy by one leg, and the two small mechs nearly knocked Wheeljack off his feet as they rolled beneath him, snarling in mock rage. Meanwhile, Rumble and Ramhorn had squared off properly and were warily circling each other, as Eject and Rewind stood to one side, cheering them on.

"I get dibs on the winner!" called Eject, hopping up and down in gleeful excitement. Ratchet's shouts as he tried to defend his equipment were barely heard over the little bots' whoops and hollering.

Optimus, watching everything from his seat against the far wall, began to chuckle quietly. Then with a start, he remembered that Megatron knew nothing of all this. The Decepticon Commander would of course want to be notified that such drastic modifications had been made to his soldiers. Prime just hoped he wouldn't be too upset that he hadn't been asked first.

_Megatron?_ Static greeted his hail. _Megatron, where are you? There's something I need to tell you._

"Blast," Prime muttered in frustration. "Where could he be that he gets no reception?"

* * *

It was dark down here, deep within the labyrinthine passages at the core of Cybertron. Here in these vaults was the primordial dark of caves, the precursory dark that comes before creation. The ancient, warm air was thick, almost viscous, compressed by the miles and tons of metal above. It parted reluctantly as he pushed his way through it, clogging his vents like a syrupy liquid as his laboring fans squealed with effort. The weight of the planet pressed down on him. But Megatron was unbowed.

The Forge had been here since the time of the first awakening. Yet moved by some sense of inborn awe – a vague uneasiness in the face of a palpable, ancient force too old to be remembered but too powerful to die – the mechs of Cybertron had seldom dared to use it. They had made copies of course: other forges, based on this one, used to make replacement parts, drones, weapons. But here the fires flared hottest, fueled by the energy of Cybertron's core itself. It was said that here, long, long ago, life had been born in the flames.

Once before, Megatron had come to this place. He had come here in defiance, to the place where, for all he knew, his own plating had been shaped and hammered out; and here, beneath the pressing darkness, he had first forged his Mark. That mark glimmered faintly on his chestplate now, as he lay down on the dust-covered floor, stretched an arm under the huge bulk of the furnace, and lit the pilot flame.

After getting to his feet and dusting off his hands, he disconnected a duct in his left wrist, and poured out some of his own energon onto the hearth. It was necessary to prime the unknown powersource that fueled this smithy. When he felt he'd given enough, he resealed the connection, and moved off to set the ancient controls.

Even in this untouched place, the corrosion of measureless time was evident. Megatron wondered if the crusted switches would break off in his fingers. But there were no mishaps, and at last, satisfied, he lit the pool of energon with a carefully-controlled blast from his fusion cannon. With a _whoomp_ that seemed to suck the pooling oxygen from the room, the furnace thundered into fiery life.

Megatron loved the shuddering roar of the flame. He relished the heat which crackled across his finish, tested the tolerance of his sensors, burned away the dust and grime, and softened even the metal of his shell so that the thousand pits and scratches that marred and dulled his plating were gradually melted smooth. Although the only light was the orange glow from the furnace, Megatron moved confidently about the room, remembering where the tools he needed were kept, preparing his materials. When all was in readiness, he took out the little piece of silvery alloy he'd brought with him. He looked at it, smiled a fond farewell, and thrust it into the white-hot flames.

Sparks flew up around him in explosive bursts, and Megatron danced among them, reveling once more in the glory of creation. Filled with the living air at the birthplace of his race, Megatron felt his own life-force crackling in answer, as it soared between his circuits and coursed against his pistons. He shouted aloud, a wordless, rhythmic cadence that was more ancient than he was.

* * *

_Megatron, where the slag are you?_

As it had been for the whole past joor, static was the only answer to Prime's increasingly impatient hails.

He looked out over the anxious crowd of multicolored faces that pressed in agitation up the side of the hill. Only half a breem to go. Optimus didn't know if there was anything he could say that would waken a desire within the assembled mechs to go forward in peace, instead of following their hatred and turning back to warfare. But it wouldn't matter what he said, if Megatron did not return soon.

As he paced across the small space of cleared floor where he and the other lieutenants from both factions had gathered, Prime was increasingly glad of the remnant of burned-out wall that shielded him from the suspicious stares of the thousands of red and blue optics below.

The other officers were also uneasy. Some shifted in their seats; others found their own grooves to pace out in the floor. Only Shockwave seemed able to remain still; but his cold, impenetrable gaze was harder on Prime's jangled nerves than anything the others were doing.

Blitzwing and Astrotrain sat glumly together in one corner, swapping uneasy glances. Every mech in the room was aware of the empty places left in the Decepticon command hierarchy by the deaths of Soundwave and Starscream. That theirs had been the only faction to lose high-ranking officers just at the point of surrender was a sore point deeply felt and much resented among all the Decepticons. There had been a bit of a scramble to decide who among the ranks deserved to be promoted to lieutenant, and the triple-changers were painfully aware that their presence here among the officers was based far more on chance than merit. Neither was sure of the security of his position. It would be up to Megatron to make it permanent, when he reorganized his forces. But Megatron wasn't here. And the two triple changers resented his inattention.

"What's takin' him so long?" Jazz muttered, voicing the question that was foremost in everyone's processor.

"Ah shoulda followed after 'im," growled Ironhide, who was pacing in Prime's wake, "Made sure of his intentions..."

Optimus was fed up with accidentally meeting Prowl's optics, irritated by the little forced gestures of encouragement; or worse, of sympathy. He strode out the back of the partial enclosure, and down along the far side of the hill.

_Megs, you struttless slagheap, where are you hiding?_

_Against the wall two meters to your right._ Megatron stepped quickly up to his shoulder, startling the Autobot Commander. "You didn't think that I'd run out on you, did you?" he queried lightly. "Faithless glitch."

Optimus gaped at the other mech, in whose polished silver plating was reflected all the warm light of the evening sun. "You spent all this time _buffing yourself up?"_ he remonstrated.

"No, I wanted-" Megatron stopped. "_Buffing?_ What the slag are you babbling about, Optimus?"

"Your shiny new chrome suit!" the red mech barked impatiently.

Megatron glanced down at his bright arms, his shining chest. "Oh. Huh. It must've been the heat." He sounded unimpressed. "My plating's unimportant. I need to show you something."

"Can't it wait till later, Megatron?" Prime's patience had worn thin. "A klik or two is all we have, before we have to face them." His nervousness about appearing before all of Cybertron unmasked and newly-bonded was reaching a peak. He wanted to get it over with.

"Slaggit, Optimus, this is important!" Catching up to Prime as he stalked back up the hill, Megatron grabbed the red mech by the shoulders and turned him around. "This peace is already over a hundred thousand vorns late in coming. A few more kliks won't hurt anyone. Now, stop worrying, and look what I did with your faceplate."

The Decepticon held out his hand, and a length of old chain slipped down through his fingers until the loop caught on his wrist. From the chain hung a single piece of fire-blackened metal.

Optimus reached out and took the pendant, examining it closely. The blue fire in his optics suddenly grew bright.

"Till All Are One?" he quipped.

"Something like that, yes," his one-time enemy said dryly.

Prime looked down at it again. His mask had been cut into a new kind of sigil. It looked as if the top half of the Decepticon brand, the part that Prime had always thought looked like a crown, had been combined with the bottom half of the Autobot mark, with its wise, sad eyes. Prime looked at this new face, this new symbol, and nodded gravely.

"It looks like the face of power that is tempered by some wisdom. I like that."

He raised his head, looked at Megatron. "But you of all mechs wouldn't possibly imply that we should do away with both the factions-?"

"No. Our factions have become a part of who we are. They're as close to family as most of us will ever come. No. You can't take that away."

"I agree. But what-" Prime lifted up the chain, and let the new-made sigil hang in the air between them. "Who is this for, then?"

"You said it yourself first, Optimus." The silver mech reached out a thick, black finger, and flicked the metal face, so that it spun a little on its chain. "You are the one mech who must be above faction."

"Why not you too?" demanded Prime. "I thought this was to be a rule of equals."

Megatron was silent for a long moment. Unconsciously, he put his hand protectively over his polished chestplate, and stroked a thumb over the purple brand he had so long ago pressed into it. He vented air in a long, hissing sigh. When he spoke, his voice was somber. "This mark is... _me_, Optimus. I- I _can't_ give up who I _am_. But you..." He reached over and tapped a finger against one of the white symbols embossed upon the red mech's boxy shoulders. "You believe in this, but you've never _defined_ yourself by it. You've always been more than just the Autobot Commander."

He shrugged. "I'll be the lawgiver, the judge, the steward. But you..." Megatron cocked his gilded head. "I realize this will pander to your secret vanity, my friend; but whether we like it or not, you've always been the light that we all follow. Even I do, though it pains me to admit it. Optimus, you have to be the Prime. For all of us."

Optimus let the rough-hewn piece of metal drop into his hand, and stared down through it. His mouth quirked into a tired, wistful smile. He shook his head, and focused in the burning optics of his bond-brother. "No, Megatron," he said. "You're wrong." There was a slight pneumatic hiss, as the red mech shifted his stance. "We have _both_ been wrong. We've spent our lives bound up in the belief that we were the only ones capable of leadership. We've held the others around us down: I by trying to take everything on myself, and you by never trusting your soldiers to do anything on their own." He put a firm hand on the other mech's shoulder. "We must accept the fact that someday, others must rise to take our places. And we need to begin preparing them for that task."

His optics flashed bright blue. "I _don't_ have to be the Prime." The Autobot Commander seemed to stand a little straighter as he said the strange new phrase. He lifted his bare chin. "But I _will... _For now. And I will wear this," he smiled, "For now. Though it will seem strange to me. I never wore a chain to show my allegiance, you know."

"You're right," said Megatron. "You didn't. You were more interested in breaking them." He took back the symbol he had made, and ran its ancient, ugly chain between his fingers. It was the same chain he had worn so many times in the pits of Kaon, the only thing he'd had to hand when he needed something strong enough to hang the future on. "You're helping me break mine," he said quietly.

Prime pulled him into a quick hug. "You're breaking them yourself," he whispered. "All Cybertron will remember you for it."

With some sense of ceremony, the Decepticon Commander fastened the crude medallion around his bond-brother's neck. It hung, still warm, against Prime's battered chestplates.

"I thank you for this, Brother. And for everything it means. It gives me hope, " said Optimus.

"I made it in hope," the other mech replied.

* * *

A familiar voice broke into the open channel, startling the two tall mechs. Jetfire had begun addressing the assembly. His words, like Prime's and Megatron's would be in a few moments, were being broadcast over every wavelength. _"__Cybertronians, you all know me. I have fought beside many of you, first as a Decepticon, then later as an Autobot. I have the greatest respect for all of you, my colleagues in both factions. And that is why, today, I am grateful that we meet together at last in peace..."_

"We have to go!" Prime sprang back up the hill, spluttering as the new insignia bounced up and hit him in the chin.

"_My friends, today we have been given an opportunity that will not come again: a chance to put aside our differences, and move forward in harmony as we have not done in eons..."_

They reached the crest, and skidded to a stop behind Jetfire. Suddenly Optimus remembered that he'd forgotten to tell Megatron about Rumble and Frenzy. He leaned over, and whispered hurriedly to the other mech.

"You _what?"_ the Decepticon powered up his vocalizer, preparing to give the upstart Autobot a blistering piece of his mind.

"_...To guide us in this course, we will have two of our race's greatest leaders..."_

But the raging mech was cut off, as the blinding light of a glaring spotlight hit both Commanders full in the face.

"_Cybertronians, I give you Optimus Prime and Megatron!"_ Jetfire finished triumphantly. Then he stepped out of the light, into the safety of relative obscurity; and abandoned the two tall mechs to the whim of a thousand staring faces.

Optimus took a hurried moment to collect his thoughts. Then he raised his naked countenance to the light. "My friends," he began, "Today, if you wish it, we can all be one." He darted an apprehensive glance at Megatron, standing at his side. The big mech was obviously still seething about not being informed earlier of his soldiers' condition. Prime cocked an optic ridge at the Decepticon, and reached out a hand to him. Megatron looked down at it, chuffed, and took it resignedly. The two mechs raised their joined hands overhead.

The mechs below stood frozen in a stony silence. The weight of their implacable stares pressed in on the two leaders. Then, rising up out of the warm evening, a swelling shout arose: a clamor of consternation, of incredulity, of joy.

* * *

_From his place among the tallest mechs at the back of the crowd, Sixshot watched the proceedings warily. It was fine for Prime, and possibly even for Megatron, to say they wanted peace. The Autobot leader would be ecstatic at the prospect. And his own Commander would probably learn to be content. After all, the old warmonger would still be in a position that would let him order other mechs around. _

_But Sixshot did not know if he, the designated 'living weapon' of his faction, could have a place in a world without war. From the first inauguration of the Ceasefire, all of his many alt-modes, his great arsenal, and his capacity for unsparing destruction, had all been rendered useless. In the absence of everything that had ever made him valuable, he wondered what was left for him to do._

_Sixshot had never fit in well with others. A destructive power as great as his tended to put a damper on friendship. At his approach, even his fellow Decepticons would often be reminded of some pressing business in the opposite direction. For the most part, he'd learned to live with it. But now he felt, if possible, like more of an outsider than ever. _

_He scanned the crowd, watching their reactions; and wondered stoically if, after today, he would be quietly decommissioned. _

_A scurry of movement caught his attention. An exceptionally short Autobot was darting between the legs of the tall mechs around him, trying to make his way to the front. Sixshot looked closer, and was surprised to realize that he recognized the minibot. It was the red one that they'd all been warned about, the Autobot who was known for a blazing fierceness which bordered on unreason. They said the little mech was immune to intimidation, extraordinarily well-armed, and packed a solid punch that belied his lack of stature._

_Sixshot felt a rare chuckle rise beneath his vocalizer. The pugnacious little Autobot's late arrival to this historic peace accord was an overt act of defiance, as was the fact that he bristled with more guns than the Decepticon specialist could count. He sent out a pulsewave. _Psst! Hey, Autobot!

_The pint-sized mech spun around, and glared up at the inattentive faces which towered over him on all sides. When he noticed Sixshot peering down at him, his scowl deepened. He put his hands on his hips, fingers resting meaningfully on the handles of a couple of the many guns he'd strapped onto his chassis._

_Sixshot ignored the Autobot's gruff posturing. Instead he jerked his head, and beckoned the little red mech over. _This may surprise you,_ he radioed, _But I think I understand exactly how you're feeling right now._ The mighty Decepticon reached down toward the minibot. _Come on,_ he comm'ed. _You'll get a clear view; and in return, you can give me a kindred spark to talk to.

_Cliffjumper tightened his grip on his weapons. _I'm not going to fall for your pathetic Decepticon trick,_ he snarled._

No trick,_ replied the tall mech reasonably. _I'd just really like some company, that's all. And I figure, if our leaders decide that we're not fit for their shiny new world, we might even make some kind of escape together._ He glanced up, and broke into suppressed laughter. _Get on up here, you little red slagger. You've got to see this. The Glorious Megatron has really outshone himself this time.

_After some awkward maneuvering, made more difficult by Cliffjumper's refusal to accept any help from Sixshot (and his insistence on keeping a large pistol in his left hand as he clambered up) the small red Autobot perched on the Decepticon operative's wide, dark shoulder. With one hand, he gripped the thin spire that rose up from the tall mech's back, and with the other, he clutched the handle of his favorite gun. He followed the line of the spotlight to the front, and blinked his optics to refresh the image they'd showed him. "What the slag is your boss trying to prove in that new get-up?" he hissed. "Ol' Megsie looks like he spent a galactic cycle on Paradron!"_

_Sixshot shrugged, unruffled. The instant he moved, a gun barrel was shoved roughly against his neck; but he ignored it. "Megatron does look ridiculous, doesn't he?"_

"_I'd sure love to put a few dents in that shiny armor." A pause. Then, "Warn me if you feel the need to make any other sudden gestures, will you?" Cliffjumper groused. Carefully, he clipped the pistol he'd been holding back onto his apex belting. It was still in easy reach._

* * *

Megatron the Mighty held high his crested head. Only Prime could discern the minute signs that betrayed his bond-brother's unease. The spotlight's glare bounced off the big mech's silvered plating and into the squinting optics of the wary, waiting crowd. Optimus chuckled as he saw a few bots flinch. Then Megatron held up a hand, demanding silence. The jumble of noise subsided.

"Decepticons!" He shouted. "Autobots!" He raised his gravelly voice, and bellowed out over the open channel. _"__Cybertronians_. You all know me. You've all spent your lifetime fighting either for me or against me. So it ought to give you pause that a calculating hardaft like myself would choose to strive for peace." He crossed his arms and glared at them – a mob of staring bots that teetered between respect and ridicule. "You know I've never hesitated to throw a soldier to the Smelter if the payoff outweighed the loss," he snapped. "Did you imagine I would give my very soul for something if I didn't think the trade was worth it? Think on _that_, before you say that Prime and I are fools, and that this peace will be impossible to maintain."

It had been many ages since Megatron had been a nameless cog in the machine. No longer the lowly laborer, the big mech was settled in his power now, used to drawing others after him with nothing more than the infectious promise of his words. He knew that there were some here in his audience who thought him fallen, who would see him now as nothing but a turncoat harlot-mech. But he'd be damned and smelted before he'd let them stare him down.

"I am a proud mech," he spat, "But shrewd. I am not too proud to abandon a course of action when it becomes unprofitable to me. Five orns ago, I faced up to some hard facts – facts which I'd been trying to ignore since I first decided to wrest the rule of Cybertron from Prime." The watchers hissed at this admission; but Megatron shushed them with a sneer. "I saw that even if I did succeed in leading the Decepticons to victory, the universe I conquered would be rendered barren by the very war which I had fought to obtain it."

The big Decepticon stretched out his hand in a large gesture, indicating the scorched battlefield upon which they all were met. "Do you suppose I'm lying to you? Then look around you, my fine mechs. Look what we've made of our home world." He watched as they shifted, a scattered few bots twisting their heads to look. "If we, the Decepticons – or the Autobots, for that matter – were ever to win this war, what would we have won? A nearly uninhabitable planet, a universe full of enemies, and a few so-called friends, who'd be only too willing to turn on us when someone else presented them with a better offer!"

* * *

"_He's right, you know."_

_Cliffjumper snorted. "You have to say that. I've seen the way your kind all grovel to him."_

_The jab slid off of Sixshot like a drop of water. Cliffjumper might have commented on the weather, for all the huge mech seemed to notice. _

"_I've brought devastation to entire planets at his command, little Autobot," he said. "I've seen what he's talking about. I'm just glad he's finally realized the futility of it all for himself! It took him long enough," the tall Decepticon added in an undertone. _

_Cliffjumper barely heard him. He was wistfully examining the operative's many specialized upgrades. "You can't tell me that you didn't enjoy it, ya great big overpowered lump," he grumbled. "I know that _I _for one sure get a kick out of slagging 'Con skidplate." He twisted his head this way and that, tallying up the Decepticons around him whom he'd personally damaged, smiling grimly as he noted scars a few of them still carried after some of his more memorable attacks._

_Sixshot turned slowly to face the smaller mech. "Raining down destruction is indeed 'fun' on occasion," he said somberly. "I ought to know; I'm even better at that kind of thing than even you are. But in the end, little Autobot, we only destroy ourselves."_

* * *

The whispered conversation between Cliffjumper and Sixshot was not the only hasty exchange that riffled through the crowd. But Megatron raised a heavy hand, and shouted above the rising babble of indignation.

"I'm not suggesting that we give in to Autobot rule!" he cried. "I'd never again submit to that, or condemn my soldiers to do so. But perhaps together, if we stopped trying to kill each other for a few vorns, we might remember how to justly govern ourselves!" He lifted his gilded head. "I for one am ready to put my energies into building, instead of tearing down; to go out into the universe looking to discover, instead of hoping to enslave."

The big mech crossed his arms, and spoke with quiet intensity. "You may think I've grown weak, or that I've given in. I happen to disagree."

Along their private channel, he muttered a bitter aside to Prime, _This took more courage than any of those worms will ever fragging know!_ The red mech nodded in sober understanding.

"It's a simple decision, really," the Decepticon Commander concluded. "Soundwave saw it coming, and could not live with such a future. And in the end, neither can I. He chose to die. I choose to live. Now you too must make your choice. Be grateful," he snarled, "That you've been given one!"

For a moment, Megatron appeared to have reached the end of his address. But he did not move out of the spotlight. Something more seemed to be bothering the big mech, something that was proving difficult for him to say. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then rocked back on his heels. When he finally spoke again, it was in a much softer tone.

"Earlier I told you how I recognized the glitches in my own processor," he said. "But there are other fragments of flawed code which, over the eons, I have imprinted into the CPU's of many of my own fighters." His crest subsided a little. "Decepticons," he said, "I led you into the Pit, whether you were willing or no. I ask you now to trust me to lead you out again." He held out an open hand. "It is your choice."

With that, the silver warrior turned, and stalked back glumly to his place beside the Prime. Optimus would have liked to throw his arms around his new bond-brother in gratitude and love. But for now, as blue optics met red ones, he simply hoped the feelings showed on his now-open face.

* * *

_Cliffjumper noticed that his mouth was hanging open, and closed it with a snap. Never, in a thousand ages, would he have expected this._ _He'd found himself, against his will, believing that the Decepticon Commander told the truth. He'd even caught himself looking up at this shiny new Megatron with a grudging respect._ _He shook his head. __What was the world coming to?_

* * *

_Ironhide scanned the multitude of upturned faces, noting the uncertainty and fear displayed upon them. But underneath, the old mech caught flashes of a hope he hadn't seen in longer than he liked to count._ _Optimus had chosen an unexpected, even shocking method of achieving peace. But slag him, it was working. _

_Finally, after countless costly skirmishes for dwindling resources; after all the times he'd watched in helpless anger as the sparks of friends extinguished; after those despairing nights, when he and Prime had talked one another out of abandoning their cause... Here, at last, it was finally __working__, slaggit! Try as he might, Ironhide could not wipe the smile off his faceplates. Optimus was his commanding officer, but he was also his best friend. And right now, he felt as if his chest might burst with pride at his friend's achievement._

_A rustle of movement ran through the crowd of mechs, as optical sensors zoomed curiously in on the Commander's unmasked face. Ironhide watched Prime shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and pursed his lips in grim sympathy with the usually private mech. _

_He readied his liquid nitrogen blaster, ready to silence any hecklers. It wasn't as if they'd be damaged, he rationalized. It wouldn't break the truce, or anything. But as Prime's eternal bodyguard, he'd personally scrap the first mech that dared to disrespect the best bot in all of Cybertron._

_Megatron could talk all he wanted. Slag, some of it had sounded pretty good. But none of that had mattered much to Ironhide. All he knew was that he'd follow his friend __Optimus_ _to the Pit and back, as many times as his CO asked him._

* * *

Prime spoke over the open channel in his usual warm baritone. He didn't bother to shout. Rather, he addressed the assembled mechs in the same tone he'd have used if this were a routine, one-on-one briefing.

He began bluntly. "You know what Megatron and I have done. And Megatron has told you our reasons for doing it. You know the depth of our shared commitment to peace. But I want you to understand this, my friends: It is not _our_ commitment that matters. It is _yours_. The question of whether or not we will have peace cannot be answered by the two of us. It must be answered by you. Upon each one of you rests the responsibility to choose whether you will continue to fight a hopeless war, or work for the freedom of peace."

His gentle gaze wandered through the crowd. And each mech who met the steady fire in those wise blue optics felt certain that the Prime had spoken specifically to him.

"Today, we are met on what I pray will be the last battlefield of the Cybertronian wars; every member of our race returned and gathered here so that we might declare as one whether we will indeed have peace. But what about tomorrow? What of the next day, and the next? From now on, each day will require a new ceasefire; a new, more _personal_ commitment to peace. Make no mistake about this my good friends-" The Autobot Commander spread wide his arms to take in the whole assembly, 'Bots and 'Cons alike. "Each one of you has the power to determine the future of all. Whether we move forward together, or return to self-destruction, is just as much up to you as it is to me."

The tall red mech spoke earnestly. His words were personal, pleading. "Please, do not take this power lightly," he entreated. "There are those among you who have resented being made to feel expendable. I can assure you that no bot here is more or less important than another, now. Each one of us bears an equal burden in the fate of our civilization. From now on, we will all depend upon each other more than we have ever done before."

Prime's kindly blue optics were somber as he surveyed the mechs before him. "This change will not be easy," he admitted. "Our world has been abnormal for so long that we've forgotten what it's like to live in a peaceful climate. I do not expect our programming to be rewritten in an orn. But it can be done. For my friends, we were not built to fight each other. We were not made to destroy ourselves. Our core programming has been misused and misdirected. Can't you feel it within yourselves? That deep dissatisfaction, that underlying imbalance: these are warnings that we have been infected with a virus which seeks our ultimate destruction. I plead with you: join me in fighting the flaws within ourselves, instead of battering each other. For if there is to be any peace or reason in this world, we must first create it within our own sparks.

"But please understand this," the Autobot admonished gravely, "Peace will require just as much effort from each of us as warfare has. We can not sit idle. We must repair our battered world, and then mend what we can of the damage that our war has done to other planets and their inhabitants. We will need to become builders, instead of soldiers. I haven't been anything but a soldier for a very, very long time. There are many things I will have to re-learn to do. But each of us has talents he – or she – can only use in peacetime. I, for one, would welcome the chance to do just that.

"Pursuing this new course will require great courage from all of us – the courage to face ourselves. You'll notice that neither Megatron nor myself are quite the same mechs we were just six short orns ago. Sometimes, the first step to change must be a physical one." He unslung the rough-made sigil from around his neck, and held it aloft. "On his arrival tonight, Megatron handed me this. He forged it from the discarded metal of my mask – a new symbol, the Autobot and Decepticon brands united into one new sign." He closed his hand around it. "I will keep it, as a touchstone. I hope that it might be an anchor to others of us as well. It was made in hope."

Optimus returned the pendant to its place against his chest, but kept one hand clasped lightly around it. "My friends," he said, "We have been given the chance to remember who we were meant to be. It is time to let the cycles of our history swallow up our age of war." He ended then, to silence, and stepped back to stand beside Megatron.

The golden light of evening glittered on the shifting, many-colored hulls of the assembled mechs, as they listened to the Autobot Prime. The air hummed with the whirring of uncounted idling motors, as each mech pondered on his own decision.

Impatient as ever in the face of indecision, Megatron spoke out. "What say you?" he demanded. "Will you have war, or peace?"

Not a servo moved.

And then the ancient, booming voice of Omega Supreme rolled out over the gathered mechs to beat against the rising hillside.

"Megatron." The elder guardian stood at the very back of the crowd, but his words throbbed deeply in the audials of every mech present. "I have dedicated myself to only two things. I protect the Autobots." He turned his heavy head to stare out balefully across the crowd at the Constructicons, who stood together at the opposite side of the space. "And I seek vengeance upon those who once betrayed me." The sentences came haltingly; each carrying a dragging weight of sorrow. "But that was so very long ago." His huge optics went dark for several kliks. Then with conviction, he intoned, "I will lay down my old revenge. I will have peace."

The simplicity of Omega's declaration pierced through the carapace of cynicism that many a mech had built around his sparks. One by one, the assembled bots looked up. What began at first as scattered whisperings of tentative hope now swelled in volume, rose up until a roaring wave of sound rolled forth across the battlefield. It burst against the bluff, washed back upon the crowding bots and then, gathering in strength until it became a mighty cry of triumph, it bore the voices of each and every transformer on Cybertron up to the watching Optimus and Megatron:

"_We will do it! We choose! We will have peace!"_

Optimus turned to his bond-brother, head high, optics blazing, and threw his arms around him. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you more than I can say."

"You are magnanimous, Great Prime," the bright mech couldn't help but tease. But he returned the embrace with gusto.

Once more, the two raised clasped hands high above their heads – this time in victory. And so they remained, their audials ringing with the confirming cry of their fellow mechs, as their planet's adopted sun sank down beneath a glorious green sky, upon the last day of the last age of the Great Cybertronian Wars.


	13. Act V: ONE

**Author's Note:**

For your information, the companion story **_Entr'acte_** takes place at the same time as this Act does, and the events in both stories overlap. I would be grateful if you would read both stories, so that you can get the full picture.

* * *

**Act V**

**One**

_**Scene i**_

"Prime!" The low growl cut through the fog of his powered-down CPU.

Blearily, the Autobot Commander jerked into static-riddled semi-consciousness._"Whuzzit?"_

"Get up, Prime." A dark shape leaned over him. It was familiar, but _wrong_ somehow. He powered up his optical sensors.

And then Optimus bolted upright, fumbling his weapon out of subspace. How in Primus' name had the Decepticon gotten in?

Megatron's optics widened, glowing red in the dim chamber. "Easy there, Oppy. It's only me." He spread his hands palm-outwards, but an amused grin played across his sly visage. "I come in peace."

Optimus stood swaying, his naked face a mask of uncertainty. But the barrel of the long black rifle never wavered in its aim.

Megatron stared down the length of the weapon Prime was training on his spark. He was puzzled. This seemed like more than just the usual disorientation muddling a bot after an emergency reboot. "It wasn't on my schedule to scrap you in your berth today," he quipped. "But I suppose I could check again..."

The black gun did not move a nanometer. "How many of the others did you kill in order to get to me?" Prime's voice was cracked, unsure; and his brows were knit in doubt and confusion.

"None, more's the pity." The grin slid down off the Decepticon's roughcast features. "You all right?" he asked.

Blue optics blinked. Off. On. The gun dropped.

And Optimus Prime sat heavily back onto his berth, subspacing his long rifle. He pounded a fist against his knotted brow and swore under his breath. "Don't _do_ that, Megatron!" he snapped, shooting a glare in the big gray mech's direction. "Your trademark Evil Overlord Smirk is _not_ the first thing I want to see when I boot up!" He scrubbed a hand over his bare face, and grimaced. "Primus give me strength!"

Megatron wanted to laugh, to say he hoped that the Autobot's old protocols never wore off, if they were going to provide him with this kind of entertainment. But a second look at his bond-brother's stooped shoulders made him mute the words.

Still growling, Prime drew himself once again to his feet. "All right!" he rumbled, as his galloping systems finally began to slow, "Who is it this time?"

* * *

The Enforcer's report was succinct. "A scuffle between him and Blitzwing," Ultra Magnus informed the Commanders. "Apparently Shockwave stepped in before it could get any more out of hand." He gave Megatron a scrupulously correct salute, but it was to Prime that he looked for approval. "I'm sure you can imagine how well that _didn't_ go," he added, carefully addressing both faction leaders equally.

Optimus huffed in frustration, glanced over the information on the arrest record, and typed in the required validation codes. Still frowning, he turned to face the Dinobot captain.

"Him Blitzwing ask for it." Grimlock's voice was loud and unapologetic, cutting in before Prime could say a word. "Him talk slag about us; get pounded. It simple." He ignited his energy sword, and stabbed it deeply into the floor. "We Dinobots _fighters_. It what we do best."

The hulking mech loomed up in his tall general's face, resting one dark hand meaningfully on the hilt of his hot, thrumming sword. "But now you say War is over. You not want fighting any more. Maybe you not want _fighters_, either." A challenge flared across his red optic band. "What you do if we not stop, eh Prime? Shut us down? Throw us in Locker?"

"I hope not," said Optimus grimly.

"You stubborn heap of mindless slag!" Megatron cut in, rounding furiously on the broader dinobot. "You will _not_ disrespect your commanding officer like this!"

But Grimlock wasn't listening. With surprising speed for such a bulky mech, he closed in on the Decepticon Leader. "Oh? What _you_ do about it?" he snapped, "Shoot big hole in Grimlock, like you do in Starscream?" There was an audible _thunk_ as the huge mech flicked an irreverent finger against the purple insignia embossed on his enemy's chestplate. "Me know you of old, Megatron. Me not trust you with _scrap_."

Prime saw his Enforcer unslinging a large pair of stasis cuffs, and grumbled a curse in frustration. "Stand _down_, Ultra Magnus," he growled, motioning the tall Autobot back with a firm hand. Optimus had been online for less than a breem, and already he was drawing on the last tiny vestiges of his patience.

"You sure you don't want me to put him offline for a quartex or two?" the Enforcer hissed dryly. "We could call it 'Behavior Likely To Cause A Breach Of The Peace'..."

Prime didn't reply.

The tall blue mech looked askance at the two bots before him – now snarling into each other's faces, chin to belligerent chin – and shook his head. "There are days when I'd love to commit the pair of them. Slagging gear-grinders." He turned to face Prime "Seriously, Optimus," he said with concern, "It might be much easier just to take Grimlock out of circulation for a while. This isn't the first time he's caused trouble-"

"_No_, Magnus." The Autobot Commander bit off the words, and stumped over to intervene in the escalating argument. "But I might let you help me bash their heads together," he grumbled over his shoulder to his old friend.

Megatron's temper was making its customary appearance, the slow burn that preceded the explosion. He refused to back down even a nanometer from the steaming Dinobot before him. "What exactly are you trying to say to me?" he growled, dangerously quiet. "If you're capable of saying anything intelligent, that is," he added in an undertone.

Grimlock snorted. "You Megatron maybe fool _Prime._" He scoffed. "_That_ not hard. Him always weak; quick to forgive and forget." The lumbering bot drew in closer, his growl low and menacing. "We Dinobots not so soft. We _remember_." He leaned heavily down on the hilt of his sword, pushing it a few more inches into the floor. "You put on good show, but you still same old Megatron: out to get what you want, twisting universe till it squeal. Now you even twist Prime."

"I'm not in the mood to be twisted, Grimlock." Prime stepped between the two fighters, speaking with unusual acerbity. "And I think that I'd notice if anyone tried."

"Oh?" Grimlock swung his heavy head around to hover within a few inches of his commanding officer's, and spat, "You Prime not punish Megatron for killing Starscream. But you arrest Grimlock for punching loudmouth 'Con?" He _harrumphed_ a hot cloud of steam. "You twisted, _'Prime.'_ You _loser."_

His glance flicked dismissively over the tall red and blue mech, sizing him up and finding him wanting, as usual. He pointed an angry finger at Megatron. "This piece of slag set himself up all pretty, get everyone eating out of him hand..." He shot Megatron a withering look, then spat, "When you think he your friend, he betray you," he shot. "Every time."

With an effort, Grimlock jerked his sword out of the flooring, and stowed it away. But a derisive sniff marred this small show of compliance. The dark dinobot stretched to his full height, all teeth-etched battle-mask and angry red visor. "Your precious Ceasefire go to Pit with rest of us; wait and see. When it does," he rumbled, sinking into his habitual fighter's crouch, "_We be waiting."_

And that's when Elita swung happily into the room, calling out in a cheery voice, "Hello my fine mechs. Did you miss me?"

Grimlock whirled and knocked her to the floor before his lagging processor had begun to asses her identity.

Pandemonium ensued. Optimus leapt around the bulky Dinobot to make sure his lifemate was undamaged. Magnus swore, and slapped a cuff around Grimlock's wrist, halting the big mech where he stood. Megatron bellowed, and sunk his fingers into the Dinobot's throat before anyone knew what was happening. "Slag it, stand down; _all_ of you!" shouted Prime. He wondered in consternation if anyone was listening to him at all today. "Elita, are you all right?"

The femme's easy laughter startled the frozen tableau of mechs. "I'm quite all right, boys," she said lightly. "Serves me right, I suppose, for not looking where I'm going." Elita ignored her bondmate for the moment, and held out an arm to the dinobot. "Gimme a hand up there, Grim."

Ultra Magnus silently released the immobilizing cuff, and the Dinobot leader reached out to engulf her small hand in his own massive black one. He carefully drew the femme to her feet. "You Elita OK?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the Enforcer standing just behind him. The fiery glare behind his visor dimmed as he sheepishly met her dancing blue optics.

"I've survived many worse things than a bruised dignity and a dented aft," she replied lightly. Elita patted the bot's heavy shoulder, and was about to give the big mech a friendly shove toward the door; but she stopped, and peered up at him more closely.

Stale heat radiated from the dinobot's massive frame. She could hear his ill-meshed servos snarling against each one another, and an uneven chug in his engine. "What about you, Grimlock?" she asked softly. "Are _you_ all right?"

The giant form sagged. "Me all right," he huffed, though the morose grumble was singularly unconvincing.

"All right, except for being bored, frustrated, and mistrustful?" Elita flashed the pugnacious mech a rueful, understanding smile.

He shrugged, saying nothing.

Elita reached up and laid a soothing hand against the cheekplate of Grimlock's toothy mask. "It's going to work," she told him. "It _has_ to work." She sighed, and drew down the bot's black head, and clumped hers against it tiredly. "We'll all have to _make_ _sure_ it works," she continued, "Even when it's hard. Even when we don't want to do it. Because if this fails, Grimlock... If _we_ fail... There is nothing left to go back to but death. Please, Grim," she whispered, and even the thick-plated Dinobot was surprised to hear such pleading from the usually matter-of-fact femme. "Please try. We need everyone. We need you."

The Dinobot leader stood motionless for such a long time that the watching trio of mechs wondered if he had shut down. A sharp hissing came from his tall, massive frame, as its pent-up pressure was very slowly released. At last he nodded. Wordlessly, Grimlock gave Elita an awkward pat, and a nod of acceptance. Then he shouldered his way out through the door of the Command Center without a glance at the three silent, watching mechs. His slow footsteps faded away down the corridor.

"That tin-plated hunk of junk should never have been sparked!" Megatron fumed. "He never could see straight, not even back when I was his handler back in the arena."

Far down the long hallway, an outer door clanged shut; and the Dinobot's powerful engine growled away down the hill.

The Decepticon began pacing angrily back and forth. "Waste of scrap is more trouble than he's worth," he grumbled. "We should decommission him, Optimus."

The tall Autobot caught his bond-brother firmly by the arm, halting him midstride. "Listen to what you're saying, Megatron," he hissed. "Is that what you really want? I won't live that way. And what's more, I don't think you want to either."

"Slag off."

Ultra Magnus shook his head in grim humor. He left Prime to sort out Megatron, and stared out the window after the departing dinobot. "Well," he huffed softly to himself, "I suppose I'd better go tag along after the big glitch, just to make sure he stays out of trouble for a while."

Optimus overheard him. "Leave him be for a while, my friend," he said gently. "He just needs a chance to cool down; and you know he won't do that with you following him."

The heat from the dinobot's grimy, overclocked motor was still there in the room, even after he had gone. "We could just get Ironhide to douse him with liquid nitrogen," Ultra Magnus quipped dryly. The blue Enforcer shrugged his tall shoulders. "I hope you know what you're doing, Sir."

"So do _I_, you daft fragger!" Megatron groused. "I don't understand why you let a loose cannon like him wander free." He would have liked to go head-to-head with Grimlock. It had been almost three orbital cycles since he'd gotten to scrap anyone, and he missed it. "The rest of his ragtag team will be manageable, I believe," He continued, with a sharp chuff of cydraulics. "But that one... I don't know."

"We have to give him _time_, Megatron. We have to give all of us time. I refuse to punish anyone for breach of the peace accord unless I am _forced_ to." Almost unconsciously, Optimus reached out to take hold of Elita's hand. "The penalty is too high to be doled out lightly," he said sadly, pulling her close.

The femme leader gave her bondmate's fingers a reassuring squeeze, and flashed him a quick, private smile. But it was to all three of the mechs that she spoke. "This change must come freely, or not at all," she said firmly. "If we force their compliance, then it would have been better if we'd never stopped fighting."

Optimus nodded in grave agreement. But Magnus and Megatron's faces remained impassive.

"We all need to believe the best of each other right now." Her steady gaze passed from one mech to the next. "_You_ have to believe in each other."

Across Prime's memory banks flashed a recollection of the terror he had felt at seeing Megatron's smirking visage as he came online. "Believe the best of each other..." he repeated to himself. He shot out an arm, and hooked his fingers into Megatron's armor, shocking the warrior into a defensive stance. There came a grinding clang as he butted his helm roughly against the dark brow. "Even you, you obstinate old glitch," he murmured affectionately, and smacked the gray mech with an inarticulate growl.

"Yes," said Elita with no trace of humor. "Even Megatron."

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," the Decepticon sneered. He turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

Megatron strode distractedly along the corridor, his head high, optics fiery, mouth set; but his thoughts were a mad jumble of disorganized input. He wore the appearance of contented purpose; but in reality he was much less settled in his new role than he let on. He missed the wild dreams of conquest with which he had always comforted himself. He ached to feel again the sweet, illicit release of the kill; to watch the light in another's face die; to inspire the onlookers' terror. He worried that his power was fading. Grimlock had never kowtowed to him, it was true. But not even the Dinobot would have spoken out so forcefully - so _fearlessly_ - against him before. And that thought galled him.

He almost tripped over Rumble and Frenzy, as the two little mechs stepped out of a doorway in front of him. "Watch where you're going, you scrap-licking runts!" he complained. But he turned back to them after a few paces, his curiosity aroused. "Hey," he called after the retreating bots, "How's, uh, how's living with Blaster working out?"

The two little mechs looked up at their Commanding Officer, their faces set in almost identical expressions of defiance. "We'll survive," said Frenzy bluntly. "It ain't always easy livin' with a buncha slaggin' Autobots around, but-"

"-But then, you'd know all about that _now_, wouldn't you?" needled Rumble, breaking in.

Megatron scowled, and bit back a retort. His minions should never believe themselves able to rile him. But there was suddenly something familiar about the way these two acted, the way they looked out for one another. He crouched down before them, his hands on his knees, and examined the minions more closely.

Realization dawned, and Megatron broke into a great, unbridled laugh. He sat down on the floor, still shaking his head. "Slag me," he said, chuckling. "No wonder you two always called yourselves brothers!" He pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner that was more than a little reminiscent of Prime. "How long?" he demanded. "Was it after Soundwave and the other Cassettes-?"

Frenzy snorted. "Slag, no!"

Rumble gave his Commander a cheeky grin. "Old Badness-Bot himself... still as blind as a byte-bat!"

"But how- I'd forbidden it!" Megatron remonstrated.

"You recruited _us_, you'll remember" the purple Cassette retorted. "And you took us as we came."

"_Both together, or none_," recalled Megatron aloud, as a smile tugged up at one corner of his mouth. "All this time..." He shook his head, bemused. "How did you keep it a secret?"

Rumble lifted an impudent optic ridge. "You're not gonna like the answer, Boss..."

"It was easy," said Frenzy flatly. "You had no idea what you were looking at. You wouldn't have seen our spark-bond if we'd worn signs."

"You didn't care enough about us to look," put in Rumble accusingly. His expression was as cocky as ever, but his crossed arms and planted feet spoke to the purple mechling's long habit of protectiveness. "Besides," he continued, "Hardly anyone really understood us Cassettes. I mean, after a while most of the guys just thought of us as sort of... pieces of Soundwave. No one paid close attention to us as ourselves."

"Their mistake," put in Frenzy. "We got away with all _kinds_ of slag because of it. It's like I always said: if you're gonna be a 'Con, be a _Cassetticon"_ The black and red bot shrugged a shoulder. "Having the same design probably helped, too. I mean, everyone already kind of expected us to act alike..."

"But-" Megatron flailed, "_Soundwave_...!"

"Oh, he knew," replied Frenzy.

"And he never told _me?"_ Megatron felt his temper rising again at the thought that his most trusted lieutenant could have kept him in the dark about something like this.

Rumble's half-shrug mirrored his bond-brother's. "We made it part of the contract," he said bluntly.

Megatron clenched his fists. "I'm going to fragging _kill_ that Smelter-spawn!"

There was a moment of dead silence, in which the temperature of the corridor seemed to drop several degrees.

Frenzy broke it. "Uh, Boss?" the little black mech's voice was unusually brittle. "He did that job for you."

* * *

"It's not working. Why is it _still _not working?"

Thousands of blue crystals hovered at precisely-calibrated levels, at precisely-measured intervals, in a pattern that a carefully-vetted team of architects had followed with exactness. Prowl stood in the center of the rebuilt Helix Gardens, and looked around him in mute frustration. It had taken him months of exhaustive searching to unearth the ancient blueprints, but he'd found them at last. The group of artisan-mechs had rigorously adhered to those original specs. His team had worked so long, so diligently, clinging to the memory of a place that had once been one of the jewels of Cybertron. They had labored with such hope...

Yet still, the crystals refused to sing.

"I don't know why it's not, Grapple," the tactician replied quietly. "I just don't know."

Prowl watched the yellow crane transform, and listened to the angry roar of the craftsmech's big motor as he spun away. "The Pit take us all!" he cried in bitter disappointment. "Why can't we do it?"

From behind him came the sound of a small engine. Wheels rolled to a stop on the smooth ground; light plates slid across one another in easy transformation. A slim hand touched his arm, and Prowl turned to greet Firestar with a small, tight smile.

"It is beautiful," she said softly

"But dead," Prowl replied shortly. He turned to the red femme beside him. "How could we have failed?" he demanded. "I chose the best mechs we had for the job. I'll personally attest that none of them strayed from the blueprints by so much as a nanometer. What can we have done wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong," Firestar assured him. "You simply overlooked something."

"What is it? What have we forgotten? I checked and rechecked everything!"

Firestar shook her head, and gave him a rueful little smile. "Prowl, who built the original Helix Gardens?"

In all his research, Prowl had come across the names a few times. But he'd been far more interested in the instructions themselves, and had paid their designers little heed. Besides, the original architects had perished vorns ago. His clipped reply was impatient. "I don't remember their names! Their identity is beside the point..." He paused, finally noticing her somber expression. "Isn't it?"

"No," she replied. "It's the _whole_ point. You of all mechs ought to remember..." Firestar raised her gaze to the fathomless optics of the Autobot Second in Command. "You can't have forgotten what it was like to have her, Prowl," she chided him gently. "Not you."

The black and white mech bowed his head. "No," he whispered. It was fairly common knowledge that his bondmate had been killed in the Decepticon's first offensive. But he resented Firestar's speaking of her, nonetheless.

"No mech ever built this place alone, my friend," continued Firestar gently. "Designing a garden like this required a small team of both mechs and femmes."

"Do you think that still matters?" asked Prowl uncertainly. "We followed the specs..."

Firestar fought down her rising exasperation. "There's more to beauty than a blueprint!" she flashed. "You mechs are straightforward. We see around the corners. It's always been that way! And a garden is more than some old lines on a page!"

She turned away from him, and strove to restrain her harsh feelings. Her temper rose out of her own pain, she knew, and taking it out on Prowl wasn't fair. "What I mean is," she said, fighting to keep her voice level, "I suspect in this instance you'd need the creative impulses of a femme to temper the mech-corps's strict adherence to specs."

He looked at her then, an unspoken question flaring up in his optics.

Firestar shook her head sadly. "I don't think I can anymore," she said. "I've lost who I was, somehow."

The Autobot Second looked down at the slim femme, at the crisscrossed scars that the war had left upon her, and hope slowly died from his earnest white face. His mouth hardened. Silently, he put an arm around her shoulder, and drew her in. Wordlessly, the two of them stared out over the failed, dead gardens.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I had to become a soldier. And now, try as I might, my old programming is unrecoverable."

"I'm sorry too," said Prowl.

* * *

"It happened again, didn't it? I can see it in your face. You know, others besides me are bound to start noticing soon."

Confronted by Elita's shrewd accusation, Optimus was stubbornly mute.

"Have you spoken with Megatron about it?"

"Not yet..."

"Have you asked _Ratchet's_ advice?"

Prime sighed. "Elita, there are some things even Ratchet can't help with. There has never been a spark-bond like Megatron's and mine in the history of Cybertron. He's muddling along by guesswork, the same as we are. It's just a glitch. It'll go away. I won't pester him about it."

The pink femme tightened her lips. She'd been watching her bondmate much more closely than usual lately. He was holding himself together – barely – but the facade of composure was beginning to crack.

Elita wondered if she ought to see Ratchet herself on his behalf, whether he wanted her to or not.

Optimus guessed at her thoughts. He vented a long sigh, one that took with it some of his practiced military posture. "Please, Elita. There are more important things at stake here than my reaction when Megatron catches me off guard."

"Oh really." Elita said stiffly. "Like what?"

"It's a very long list."

He was fidgeting; his fingers distractedly moving over her light plating, testing the set of her armor, the strength of her joints. "Don't worry about me, 'Lita. I've got this under control."

"For now..."

At first, long ago, Elita had chided her lover for the way he would constantly check over her frame whenever they were alone together. She'd even once accused him of not trusting her. "I've _told_ you I'm at 100%, and I expect you to _believe_ me!" she'd shouted.

But all that was a long time ago. As the war lengthened, and more and more of their comrades had been lost to it, Elita understood better her bondmate's need to reassure himself of her well-being. She let habit take over now, and relaxed against his bulk. She couldn't hold onto her frustration with him for long. Not with such a strong flood of affection pouring into her spark through his darting, anxious fingertips.

"What if it doesn't work?" he whispered, after neither had spoken for some time.

"What if _what_ doesn't work, 'Rion?"

Prime's fingers stalled. Elita hardly ever used his creation-name; but when she did, it was a coded message, both permission and request for him to be the mech beneath the mask, instead of the figurehead of all Cybertron. He loosed a long, slow hiss of pressure from his taut cydraulics. "Everything," he replied stonily.

One by one, Prime shut down the command protocols which he usually ran: the systems which maintained his bearing, his countenance, his demeanor; all the programs he'd written to help him look like a leader. He shucked off the shells which he'd built to cover up the simple young mech who'd once been called Orion Pax. Then the old Autobot hefted his bondmate into his arms, and sank tiredly onto his berth.

Elita nestled into the familiar place across his knees and wrapped her arms contentedly around his neck. She smiled to herself as Prime's restless fingers began gently tugging each of the plates at her back one by one.

"I don't know if it can last," the red mech admitted. "We've given ourselves for this fragile armistice, but the slightest disturbance could undermine it." He chuffed. "Slag, if this all goes to the Pit, in a few vorns the few bots who are left may not even remember our names!"

Prime jimmied a piece of her armor that had not quite met his exacting standards of security. "Are we just fooling ourselves?" he asked. "How can I possibly expect a bond between Megatron and myself to direct the actions of over a thousand free-thinking mechs?"

Elita shook her head against his boxy red shoulder. "You can't," she replied. She threaded her fingers through the cords of his neck, and stroked them in the soothing way she knew he loved. "It's not what you've _done_ that matters," she told him. "It's what you are _doing."_She looked up, and met his troubled optics with what she hoped was encouraging smile. "Just keep being yourself. You haven't led us astray yet."

"I'm not the one everyone's following lately..." He snorted, and demanded abruptly, "Why is it Megatron who gets the hero's acclaim? This hasn't been easy for me, either. Or for you..." He knew his complaint was foolish. But it was always a relief to give vent to his emotions – even the unworthy ones. (Or perhaps, especially the unworthy ones.) And this was Elita, after all.

Elita grinned widely. "Orion my love, are you saying that you're... _jealous_ of Megatron?" She quirked him a gently mocking brow.

Optimus broke into a rueful chuckle, and returned her grin in spite of himself. "Maybe a little bit," he admitted. "Everyone loves him now. Even you. But I..."

"You don't?" she asked, curious.

His mouth twitched into a sudden grimace. "I can't forget-" He hissed, dentals bared, and pressed a hand to his brow. "There are times, when he walks into the room unannounced... I panic. I panic for you, for all the Autobots."

"I've seen it. So has Jazz, come to that. And I'm fairly certain Prowl knows as well."

"Good," he growled with some bitterness. "They'll be ready to take him out, if he decides to betray us."

"Do you expect him to?"

Optimus fought back his fear, but there was no hiding from those perceptive blue optics. "Megatron has never been a trustworthy mech," he sighed.

"I trust him."

"I know you do, sweetheart." He pulled her tightly to him. "And in my saner moments, so do I. But I remember everything he's done. I remember all the things he's capable of. And I worry."

Elita straightened her backstruts, and took Prime's head in her hands. She examined him closely, her expression thoughtful as her fingers traced over the lines of his long-forgotten face. The agelong war had taken its toll on her bondmate. The carefree mech he once had been was almost entirely extinguished. Almost. She called quietly back to that young bot. "Orion? Sometimes, it might be better to forget."

Prime chuffed mirthlessly. "I can't, dearest. I dare not. I'm an archivist at spark; and I don't believe in forgetting."


	14. Act V scene ii

_**Scene ii**_

Time passed. Working together still did not come easily to Optimus and Megatron. The two Commanders clashed constantly: over energon allotments, over strategy, even over who had the better faction symbol.

But beneath that veneer of childishness – and the deeper animosities that fueled it – was a longstanding mutual respect. The grudging esteem the two Commanders granted each other as enemies had only been strengthened by their bond. Each orn, they challenged each other's thinking, brought out each other's strengths, and found ever more effective strategies in their continued attempts to impress each other. Despite – or perhaps because of – their frequent disagreements, the two mechs were gradually crafting the most fair and effective government their planet had ever seen.

But so far, for the most part, the society they sought to build still existed only in their processors. There, and on the countless datapads that filled their respective workspaces: Megatron's neatly stacked and coded; Prime's piled in teetering stacks across his desk and along the walls of his office.

Megatron had yelped at the sight when he'd walked in, on one of their first mornings after moving into their shared headquarters. "You're a glorified librarian!" he'd cried. "I thought you knew better!"

"It's called cross-referencing, Megatron," Prime quipped. "You should try it some time."

"But how can you find anything in this mess?" the Decepticon demanded, horrified.

"I know where every one of these info-screens is, and what is on them," Prime replied evenly, without looking up. "Each one will be returned, undamaged, to its proper place in the archives. But for now, I need..." His deep voice trailed off, as an idea came together in his mind. He pointed to a spot on the large holo-map spread out before him, its edges wavering and flickering with the interference that the scattered datapads along its edges inevitably caused.

"This site here will be key," he told the gray mech. "It's a confluence of three supply-routes, and-" He broke off as the door of his office slammed shut, and smiled sardonically into the empty room.

Prime glanced down again at the wavering holomap, and hissed, optics darkening. Where before he had been examining a possible build-site, now he seemed to see only a battlefield, and the ruin and decay left over in the wake of devastation.

"You're a menace!" called Megatron through the closed door.

"And you are a murderer," Prime whispered, as he listened to the heavy footfalls fade away down the corridor.

Eight quartex later, he would still flinch sometimes, if Megatron came up on him unawares.

* * *

If the two leaders found it difficult to mesh their wildly contrasting methods, they at least had the benefit of a shared goal. The restless inhabitants of Cybertron had no such common interest. In the time since the Ceasefire had been ratified, they had seethed with a barely-restrained resentment, and took it out on the two mechs who'd brought them to this stalemate in any way they could.

The Seekers had flatly refused to participate in ground-based work; the more hot-headed mechs among the Autobots had been known to walk away, rather than join any convoy which included the Stunticons; and most of the minibots, regardless of faction, had banded together to form their own private army which insisted on working as a unit, rather than risk violence by the larger mechs against its individual members.

There had been uncounted back-alley fist-fights, and three or four small-scale strikes. But the Predecon Uprising in Helex had shocked Autobot and Decepticon alike. That conflict had resulted in the deaths of Inferno and Cutthroat, and the execution of Razorclaw, who had opted for his own destruction rather than face unending spark containment in the halls of confinement.

After presiding at the Predacon leader's extinction, which Megatron had administered with as little fuss as possible, Optimus had gone to offer Red Alert what comfort he could; since up until the battle at Helex, his Security Director and the easygoing Inferno had held one of the last remaining spark bonds among his forces. It had not been a pleasant interview. Upon leaving Red's quarters, Prime had withdrawn to his own, ostensibly for some needed recharge.

Elita found him there, huddled in the darkness with his hands clasped tightly between his knees, and had wordlessly slipped into his grateful embrace. Not long after, an uneasy Megatron had sheepishly joined them, and after a frown and a resigned shrug from Elita, all three bots had curled together on the one narrow berth, unwilling to let so much as a nanometer separate them.

"We're stagnating," Prime whispered, giving voice to his fears in an uncharacteristic show of doubt. "If we don't find some way of unifying our people soon, this peace will fail; and there will be nothing we can do to prevent our own destruction.

"Something's missing," Elita murmured then, "Something we've forgotten; something we used to have, but lost somehow during the long war..."

Both mechs had looked at her, and turned to meet each other's optics in mingled wonder and distress. They had indeed had something special once. But they had discarded it so long ago, they now hardly remembered what it had been like to have it.

There had once been a strong feminine element in Cybertronian society; a balancing third faction that offset the animosity between the militaristic and economic constituencies of the transformer race.

When the fighting had progressed from a factional rebellion to a full-fledged civil war, the femmes isolated themselves, forming a close-knit sisterhood that took care of its own. The Decepticons had not respected their declared neutrality; and had slaughtered hundreds of femmes in murderous assaults. Driven by fear, a few femmes had then asked to join with the Decepticon ranks. But Megatron had had little use for soldiers whose strengths did not lie in brute physical combat. He had offered them little protection.

As one of the few survivors of the first devastating attack, Elita-One had gathered the ragged remnants of her species together, and formed an autonomous detachment of female bots who bore the Autobot brand and fought under her leadership.

The femmes never forgot their betrayal by the Decepticons. In fact, most of them tended to mistrust all mechs. Elita's followers rarely seemed to notice the way the two surviving conjugal mech-and-femme bonds among their own numbers had strengthened the whole unit.

Of Elita's corps, only six of the original 140 now remained online. Megatron tended to avoid them, out of a guilty conscience. But both he and Prime were in agreement that if they were to shore up their already-stagnating new society, they would need the help of the femmes.

* * *

Optimus Prime shook his head. Standing now in the high-windowed Command Center of Pax Cybertronia, the new seat of government that had been built from the ashes of Talus, he was watching his bond-brother attempt to confer with the small group of femmes. He'd known from the start that the Decepticon's ideas would not be popular. But even Prime was surprised by the forcefulness of the femmes' present resistance.

"There must be something you have," Megatron repeated impatiently, "Something that we mechs don't have, something we need to be whole as a species. There must be, not to put too fine a point on it, a reason for your existence _apart_ from us. All I'm asking is for you to give us a chance to identify what it is, and make use of it!"

"What makes you think we'd ever trust you?" called a voice from the tiny, uneasily-shifting group. "We'd be mad to allow you or your agents to poke and prod at our internals!"

"How if I were to ask one of your own; perhaps Ratchet or Perceptor-?"

Firestar stepped forward, gesturing at the others for calm. "Our base program is different from yours," she explained for what felt like the thousandth time. "But that still doesn't mean we can save you. I don't see why you insist on needing us now. You never did before." Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Our world is a mess," said Megatron bluntly. "But everything we try to rebuild without you ends in failure."

Arclight, the green self-taught medic who'd seen much and spoke little, was characteristically blunt. "You mechs trashed it. Don't expect us to clean it up after you."

"Besides," the orange network-hacker called Sunspot cut in quietly, "None of us here is the same as we were when we were first sparked." She tried to sound reasonable, but emotion shook beneath her words. "The war has contaminated us. We'd be no good to you in this... whatever it is... in any case."

With barely a movement, Elita signaled for patience. But she shared a private grimace of distaste with the others of her corps: femmes she'd fought alongside for most of her long lifetime, bots who were as close to her as sisters. She knew they were hurting; she ached with the same pain. But she had little to say, having spoken her mind to Megatron freely when he'd broached the subject to her and Optimus earlier.

She'd told him it was hopeless, and that probing into these matters would only anger her friends. But a powerful mythos had grown up around the femmes of Cybertron, even as their numbers were decimated. The mechs now credited them with superlative, almost impossible powers of perception, of creation, of ingenuity. Not even Megatron, it seemed, was immune to the allure of the myth. Now, watching her friends react just as she'd said they would, she shrugged. "I did try to tell him," she murmured aside. "But you know how he gets when he has a plan... He had to ask you."

"_Stop_ asking us." Moonracer's voice was small and tight. "Stop it. It hurts to remember who we once were. What we've lost."

Though he tried to hide it, Megatron's expression softened somewhat at the teal-green femme's words. But still he went on, determined to pursue this to the end. "You say you've lost your... whatever it is," he said gruffly. "But the original programming can not be completely erased. You should have seen Elita earlier, with Grimlock... All she did was _talk_ to him, and he-" The big mech waved a hand in frustration, unable to convey the impact of what he had seen.

His piercing red optics flashed out at the little group of femmes. "There's no way in the Pit or the Smelter that any of us could have done what she did!" he declared, sounding almost angry. "You must have some kind of latent hardware, some kind of unique- I don't know, _radiation,_ something that sets you apart. And we _need_ that something. We need _you_."

Chromia had been listening to all of this with growing indignation. Now she exploded. "How dare you?" she lashed out at Megatron. "You spurned us. You scorned our neutrality. 'Worse than useless' was the phrase, if I remember correctly," she spat. "And now you say you need us?"

Bristling with outrage, the tall blue femme stalked up to the Decepticon Commander. "We've had evorns to learn your opinion of femmes, Megatron. Those few who managed to join in your Primus-forsaken 'Cause' were all dead before they had finished their training. Dead, I might add, at the hands of your _own soldiers!"_

She stood straight and stiff, optics blazing in hate. "You of course won't remember a femme called Monsoon. But I do. I was with her when she died." She shuddered at the memory, though even the most hardened of mechs would never have called Chromia a coward. "I'd never thought any inhabitant of Cybertron could be capable of such cruelty. Not even you and your damned gang of thugs." She snorted, grimacing eloquently. "That was then. I know better, now. And you wondered why we turned in the end to the Autobots!"

She leaned close to the Decepticon's audial, although her face showed that she'd rather bathe in cosmic rust than allow herself to touch him. "Monsoon and I were _sisters_," she hissed. "_Soul-bonded_." Chromia sneered as the big mech threw a hasty glance in Prime's direction. "That's right," she affirmed. "Now you know _exactly_ what that means."

She stepped back from him a scant pace; vents flared, fans screaming. "I want you to realize what you've done to me personally, oh Glorious Megatron," she said icily, "So that you'll understand me, when I tell you that you can take your little requests and shove them up your fragging Decepticon actuator."

Not a single bot in the room moved a servo. The gray mech stared down at the angry blue femme before him, his brows drawn, his expression dark. In the end, he was the first to drop his gaze.

Slowly, he extended a hand out in front of him, its fingers closed in a fist. Then he rolled the hand, and opened it palm-upward in a silent gesture of sorrow and apology.

Chromia glanced down at the empty hand disdainfully. Optics flaring, mouth tight, she shook her head; then flicked the backs of her fingers against his chestplate in a profane parody of the sign of fellowship. "I'm sure you have fittingly _glorious_ plans," she called over her shoulder as she stalked away from him. "But sometimes, Mighty Megatron, a slaughtered species can't be brought back. Not even by Prime. And certainly not by a killer like you."

* * *

Some time later, Ironhide managed to track down his commanding officer at the back of a neglected, disorderly archives room. Ironhide didn't know what the big mech was looking for, but he was often to be found down here, combing the ancient records for some elusive tidbit of information, some fragment of helpful guidance.

"Time for a drive, Big Bot," he called to Prime's bent back. "Clear some o' this dust from yer intakes." He coughed. When the Autobot leader did not respond, Ironhide repeated himself more gently. "Come on outta there, Optimus."

There was a pregnant pause. Then Optimus set down the stack of datapads he'd been scrolling through. His intakes did feel a bit clogged, now that Ironhide had mentioned the dust. The gruff sergeant had always been able to find him and dig him out, no matter how thoroughly he lost himself. He glanced around the room, thinking of all the work still left to do. Then he huffed, replaced the records carefully back into their slots on the overstuffed shelves, and followed the sturdy red mech out, locking the door behind them.

"How ya holdin' up, old man?" asked Ironhide conversationally, as he swung along beside his taller CO.

Optimus grinned roguishly. "Better than you are, _old man_."

The massive outer doors clanged shut behind them, and they transformed gratefully. Ironhide's timing had been, as always, impeccable. Optimus was only now realizing just how much he had needed to run off and play hooky for a while. It felt good the leave the new Command Complex, with its sleek, high walls and new-built self-importance, and roll away in search of freedom down long-familiar roads.

The friendship between the two mechs had first begun through their alt-modes. Bulky, slow, and utilitarian, both Prime and Ironhide liked to go for long drives; not to show off their speed, but to explore, to observe, to discover, to relax. The flashier models would have called them outmoded, if they'd dared. But insulting the Prime or his self-appointed bodyguard was not on even Sunstreaker's list of things to try.

The highway they had chosen rose up over Ankmor Park, leaping out along a high, arching span. Lights in the tops of the tallest city-spires twinkled like the stars that glittered above them in the clear sky. Below, a hazy aurora of green ringed the horizon. Faced with such a long, smooth stretch of empty road, most of the two mechs' fellow soldiers would have gunned their engines and gone zooming over the arc of the bridge with a bellow of triumph. Optimus and Ironhide slowed instead. By wordless consent, the two bots pulled up and stopped when they reached the high point at the middle.

They watched the last traces of light fade from the sky, until only the faint pink glow of reflected ground-light remained in the thin atmosphere. Prime settled low on his shocks, replete with contentment.

"You managin' this latest bond all right?" Ironhide asked. "Not glitchin' ya up too bad, is it?"

Optimus grimaced, but said nothing.

There was probably no one else who could or would speak out to Prime about such a private matter. But Ironhide listened to more than just the official broadcasts that were sent out over the nets. He mined rumor and hearsay for bits of truth. He had made it a point to know when something was bothering his fellow soldiers. And he paid special attention when something was troubling his Prime.

"Did Elita try t' kill ya?" he asked, seeking an opening.

Optimus laughed. "She wanted to!"

"Yer too independent for your own good." said Ironhide, not bothering to varnish it up. "You've both gotten too good at working alone."

"Really." The big red truck released a sharp hiss from its air-brakes. "That's a bit like the exhaust pipe calling the wheel-well grimy, isn't it?" Prime needled. "After all, you and Chromia have never exactly hung around each other's necks either..."

Ironhide flicked his wipers dismissively. "Guess neither of us was ever like Prowl an'-" He broke off sharply. The Autobots' first officer had formed a life-bond shortly before the first Decepticon uprising. He and his mate had been almost embarrassingly attached to one another. But Pulsar had been killed in one of the early skirmishes. And Prowl had never been the same since. The red van chugged his motor in sympathy. "Poor slaggers," he said, with feeling.

Ironhide transformed and flopped onto his back. "Me an' Chromia's got our own ways," he said, and a note of rare tenderness crept into his voice. "Jus' like you an' Elita. Ya don' hafta see the bond in order for it to be there." As he lay gazing up into the star-filled sky, the old Autobot's flinty expression softened into a peculiar smile; a smile that belonged to only one bot in all Cybertron.

Optimus idled his engine, and listened to its hypnotic rhythm. After a while, he unfolded quietly into his bipedal form, and stretched out like his friend along the shoulder of the deserted bridge. He flung one arm behind his head, and looked out at the universe. When he lay like this, which was seldom, he always felt untethered, like he might just float up into the unknown immensities out there, if he didn't keep some grip on his own planet.

"You know," he said finally, apropos of nothing, "When I woke on Earth, I found out that the humans had given my original name to a group of their stars." His systems gave a gentle hiss. "It was odd. Like finding an unexpected mirror in the darkness."

"I wonder how they're doing?" Ironhide mused. "It's been so long since we left it..."

"I hope it's still there," Optimus mumbled, with uncharacteristic asperity.

Ironhide sat up abruptly, and peered down at his commanding officer, his closest friend. "Is that Megatron talking, or you?" he asked suspiciously.

Optimus swore. "Slag; sometimes I don't even know any more."

Prime cocked his head to peer up at the old red Autobot, considering him. But Ironhide was always ready to listen, without judgement or loss of faith, whenever Optimus needed to purge his processor to another mech. He wasn't shy about giving advice when he felt it was needed, either.

So Prime shunted his vents to clear out any lingering particulates. "You asked if this bond was glitching me up. Well my processor's one giant glitch at this point, Ironhide. Lately, all I see when I look at Megatron is the mech who punched a hole through my chest. And if that's what I see when I look at my bond-brother..." He sighed. "How can I expect my soldiers to do better?"

Ironhide gave a noncommittal grunt.

"What do _you_ see in him now, my old friend?"

"Same slagger I've always seen whenever I looked at ol' Megacreep," the red mech answered. "But at least now, he seems to have settled a bit." He turned to Prime. "You remember how he used ta come up with a new plan for galactic conquest every orbital cycle or so?"

Prime chuckled. "Yeah."

"Well, Megs has been working at this unification with more sincerity than I've seen in him since... Well, forever, really. And he hasn't got bored with it yet." Ironhide huffed, unconvinced, but impressed in spite of himself. "That's gotta be something," he finished.

"Hmm." Prime's response was distinctly lacking in enthusiasm.

"But Megatron isn't the problem here, is he?" The old Autobot said, more than asked. "It's _you_." Ironhide's face was stern. "Have you talked to Elita about this?"

Prime's temper flared, and he rolled hastily up from his comfortable position on the ground so that, thought still seated, he looked down on his fellow Autobot. "Why is it," he asked, "That every time I get up the courage to mention this slag to someone, they tell me I should be discussing it with some other bot?" With an effort, he forced his systems to slow. "Yes," he replied. "I have told Elita. She's probably the one thing that's keeping me sane."

"Well, at least that's one thing you did right!"

Prime snorted. "Glad you approve."

Ironhide frowned. "If it makes ya feel any better, I got a squad of my most trusted mechs keeping watch on that Smelter-spawned 'Brother' of yours," he confessed. "If he thinks about trying anything, we'll know about it before the impulse can leave his fragging CPU." He peered across at his Commander, and raised an inquiring optic ridge. "You want me to double the team?"

"No," Optimus sighed. "We'll be all right." He threw a rueful glance down at the scarred Autobot. "All the same, I'm glad that you're watching him, old friend."

Prime crossed his arms over his knees, and looked out into the night. Everything was quiet. A few Autobots sped by on a winding road far below them; and two or three Decepticon jets criss-crossed the sky above in lazy loops. Yet there were no explosions, no sense of impending attack. _Elita would love this_, he thought, with some lessening of internal tension. _It's beautiful._

"We are lucky slaggers to have beaten the odds, old friend," he remarked after a time. "So many of the old bonds were broken; so few of the femmes survived..." He chuffed. "I don't know how we'll get along without them, now."

"I hear ya had all six o' the femmes front and center today," said Ironhide, his tone clearly showing he knew more than he'd said.

"Yeah." Prime chuckled in spite of himself. "Megatron asked them in for a conference... And received an unforgettable tongue-lashing in return for his troubles," said Prime.

Ironhide grunted. "Do me a favor," he groused as he shifted his weight to a more comfortable position. "Don't let him do that again. Once Chromia found me, I thought I'd never hear the end of it. You'd have thought I was in on the plot, the way she was snarling."

Optimus held up his hands. "Hey, it wasn't my idea." He grinned wickedly. "Wish you could have seen the old warmonger's face, though. That bondmate of yours told Megatron exactly where he could stick his big plans." He met the other's blue optics gravely. "You'd have been proud of her, 'Hide."

The Autobot Sergeant said nothing, but his focus was suddenly far from the view before him.

Prime gave his bodyguard a thoughtful look. "Did Chromia tell you she mentioned Monsoon?"

"Huh." The old Autobot looked surprised. "To Megatron of all mechs?"

"Well," Prime clarified, "When I say, 'mentioned,' what I mean is, she threw Monsoon's memory in Megatron's face like a plasma bomb. It shocked Megs out of his usual conceit, and that's not easy to do."

Ironhide huffed in sardonic agreement. But he made no other reply. He sat still, lips pursed in silent thought.

"How did Chromia handle it, when her bond-sister joined up with the Decepticons?" Prime asked quietly. He'd never dared to broach the subject before; but now it seemed frighteningly relevant. He waited patiently for Ironhide's response, knowing it would be slow in coming.

"Those two!" Ironhide's optics dimmed as he remembered a happier time in the far distant past. "I used to say they were bolted together at the hip and shoulder..." The old mech gave Prime a sad little smile. "Chro' and Monsoon made the sororal bond almost from the moment they came online, long before she and I met. It took that girl almost two vorns to decide I was a fit bondmate for her sister. Not that Chromia and me was waitin' or anything..." He chuckled quietly to himself, remembering. "It really torqued her solenoids that we didn't hold off for her approval."

Optimus grimaced. "That sounds familiar."

Ironhide's optics darkened. "We were a good family! We all loved each other! No one had the right to tear that apart!" he declared with some heat. "But Ol' Bucket-Head did it. I'm still shocked at how easy it was. And I don't think he ever even noticed."

The stolid red mech turned aside, looking out at the hundreds of flickering stars. "When Monsoon flared up and left us..." He stopped, and shook his head. "Chro' held up OK for a while. Tried to tell herself faction was nothing but color choice: red vs. purple. But she and I hardly ever saw the little spitfire any more, so what could we know? And then Chromie started feeling like something was wrong. Like Monsoon was in pain..."

Ironhide forced himself to meet his Commander's sharp blue optics. "I was worried for my mate, Prime. You have to understand that. So of course I tried to persuade her not to go in after Monsoon." He shrugged, shouldering the old burden of guilt. "But you know Chromia. I don't think even Megatron himself could have kept my gal from getting her sister out of there." He loosed a sharp, empty sigh. "Maybe if she'd gotten there sooner... Maybe if I hadn't told her to wait-"

Without speaking, Prime put a hand on the other's bowed back. But he let his gaze drift out over the city, allowing his friend a moment of privacy with his grief. After a moment, the old mech finished gruffly, "I held my gal together as best I could. But there's a hardness to her now; a thick but brittle armor around her spark. She's never been the same since that night."

Both mechs sat in grim silence for a long time after that. They watched the Decepticon jets circling above, and tried to quell twinges of residual fear.

"Sometimes I wonder at my own audacity, letting him get away with all that," Prime admitted suddenly. He fidgeted with a loose coupling in his knee-joint. "I hated the war, Ironhide. But it all seems too easy. I mean, wasn't I supposed to kill Megatron?" he asked. "...Or die trying?"

"That dying thing..." Ironhide began, with an impish grin.

"Hush, you! It was a serious question!"

Ironhide didn't give his answer right away. Megatron was deserving of death – a thousand, ten-thousand times over. Ironhide still knew the names, alt-modes, and faces of each of the hundreds of bots he had lost to the Decepticon's cruelty over the eons.

But what was there to be gained by one more death? Megatron would never be able to make even a tiny fraction of the reparations he owed to Cybertron, and to every other world left scarred and smoking in his direful wake. But letting him make the attempt was surely better than wallowing in hatred. Ironhide would not forgive the Decepticon for his own sake, or even for Prime's. But he would put down his pistol for the sake of all the other lives that would only waste away if they were not given this chance to restart and rebuild. He looked up at Prime, and shrugged eloquently. "I haven't slagged him yet..."

Prime snorted. "Thanks." He flopped back onto the ground. "He really is an aft. But there's a lot of other things there too... Underneath, where we don't see them..." He broke off, embarrassed. "Elita seems to have come to some sort of understanding with him. And that counts for a lot, as far as I'm concerned."

But the thought of Elita brought his mind back to all her dead sisters, and his mouth hardened. "Maybe we're being punished," he said bitterly. "Perhaps the reason that peace is so difficult to obtain is that we don't really deserve it. Not after killing off a third of our race..."

Ironhide threw his friend a hard look. "You don't really believe that," he said flatly.

Optimus shook his head, and scrubbed a hand over his naked face in what was quickly becoming a familiar gesture. "You're right," he agreed with some relief. "But right now I'm not sure we'll be glad we survived, either. Not without them. Would you want to live in a world without femmes, Ironhide?"

"You kidding? Slag, no."

Prime lifted his gaze to meet the other's perceptive blue optics. "Somehow, my old friend, we must rebuild our race. And that includes restoring the femmes." He chuffed, worried and impatient. "But I haven't the slightest idea how we're going to do that."

Ironhide gave his Commander a long, knowing look. "There is one way you could find out," he suggested.

Prime looked up sharply.

"Are you willfully avoiding that route?" Ironhide's voice was understanding, but stern nonetheless.

Optimus tapped his fingers against his chestplates uneasily, feeling the familiar, foreign hum coming from the power housed within. He missed his faceplate. It had kept so many things hidden from view.

"I know what you speak of," he murmured. "And yes, I suppose I am avoiding it. But Ironhide, you don't know-" He turned away, shamed. "I- I need to attempt every other option first."


	15. Act V scene iii

_**Scene iii**_

Prime might have chosen otherwise, if he had realized the true breadth of the 'other options' which the mechs around him were willing to explore. For even as the Autobot Commander and his longtime bodyguard conversed on the bridge, dozens of the craftier bots from both factions were toiling away in hidden rooms all across Cybertron.

Those mechs worked in secret, driven by an unspoken sense of shame. After uncounted eons of warfare, when battle-skill, power, and weaponry were the paramount measures of an individual's worth, it seemed disgraceful to want a transformer whose strength lay in creation and ingenuity instead. But still they strove, earnestly drafting and tenderly shaping shells that were decidedly feminine in appearance.

However, with the Key to Vector Sigma lost and the programming of the femmes forgotten, the laborers knew that if they wanted to give life to their creations they would have to delve into some of the darker sciences and old knowledge best left unexplored. They rightly assumed that if their work were discovered by the leadership, it would be instantly decommissioned. So they walked into the darkness alone, each believing that he was the only one who felt thus compelled to pursue so costly and unorthodox a goal.

They studied, sketched, welded, and polished in bitter hope.

Less than three weeks after the conversation with Ironhide, Optimus Prime received a priority message from Ratchet. There'd been an accident in Perceptor's lab.

* * *

The Autobot Commander skidded to a halt in front of the long, flat building, and transformed quickly. When he stepped into the unlit gloom inside, the first thing he noticed was not the destruction of the ravaged laboratory, but the terrible thing his chief scientist had done to himself. He groaned. "Why, Ratch?"

The medic looked up from the body without speaking, and jerked his head toward Perceptor's work-table.

And Optimus felt his tanks begin to churn. For on the long slab that was Perceptor's usual station, there lay a beautifully-formed and decidedly feminine shell.

"What was he thinking?" he whispered. But he knew, as did every mech here. He'd preached it himself, often enough: Sometimes, sacrifice of self was necessary for the greater good.

Perceptor lay where he had fallen beneath the alarm button. Only the faintly-twitching fingers of his out-flung hands gave sign that he still functioned. He'd removed his chestplates, and his spark chamber lay open. But where there ought to have been a lively, pulsing glow; only a tiny, sick glimmer sputtered fitfully. Its other half quivered within the open torso of the femme-shell, an exiled amalgam of light that beat fretfully against the casing of a foreign spark core.

The love and longing that had gone into the crafting of this shell was apparent to even Prime's relatively untrained optics. Its surface gleamed; its paint was an iridescent color that changed with the direction of the light; and a delicate scrollwork of inlaid silver coiled along each curve of the light plating. Even the rivets seemed to have been placed with not only function, but beauty in mind.

But that beauty had all but cost Perceptor his soul. In trying to give life to his creation, Perceptor had sundered his own spark.

"Can you save him?" Prime asked in a hush.

Ratchet called out some staccato instructions to Wheeljack and First Aid before answering. The two assistants hurriedly set up the requested support equipment. When he had Perceptor hooked up to the emergency chargers, he met the Prime's gaze, and shrugged eloquently. "I don't know," he said. Optimus could hear the tiredness in his old friend's voice. "I've never had to repair a torn spark before."

The medic gestured to his two helpers. "With me, now, on three..." They lifted Perceptor's body carefully from the floor to a nearby table, so that he now lay head-to head with the femme-form he had tried to enspark.

"Is there any hope for..." Optimus waved a hand vaguely toward the shining, empty shell.

"Of course not! What were you thinking?" Ratchet snapped. "It's a piece of Perceptor in there, not-" He broke off, and sighed. "I don't know if there ever was any real hope," he said heavily. "Perce was just- I don't know." He fell silent, and turned his back on his CO. The medic seemed intent on his work, but Prime could see by the stoop of the mech's bowed white shoulders how deeply this failed experiment had affected him.

Optimus turned away. Then with a sudden lurch, he clicked open his communicator. He'd remembered that Megatron had also been called away suddenly, and not two joors previously. Shockwave had comm'ed to report an explosion, and had summoned his Commander to address an infraction against the Decepticon Scientific Code of Conduct. Optimus was suddenly filled with apprehension.

_Megatron?_ _What did you find?_

A burst of swearing greeted the Autobot's query_. Damned fool was trying to spark a femme, for Pit's sake. Overloaded every capacitor he had. That idiot! He'd better not force me to make do without him!_

_Who?_

_Scrapper. Should've seen that one coming, I guess. I let him get bored..._

_Slag. _Prime faced the unwelcome conclusion reluctantly. _That's two today. That means there are probably a lot more._

A thoughtful pause. _Yours too then, I take it?_

_Yeah._

_Who? _

_Perceptor._ _He tried to halve his own spark, Megatron. I never expected-_

_Yes, yes, and it's all your fault for not figuring it out sooner,_ came the caustic reply.

Prime chuffed. _Shut up, Megatron._ He sighed. _Is Scrapper all right?_

_Dunno. He all but melted himself down. Your bot?_

_Ratchet's doing everything he can..._

A snort. _Hook used to give me that phrase a lot. I threatened to switch his vocalizer with Starscream's... _

Prime found himself pinching the ridge between his optics again, a habitual gesture he was trying to curb. _You need me to send_ _anyone over to help?_

_What exactly are you implying? _the Decepticon flared. _No. We'll handle this ourselves. Besides; you and I both know it's not the medics and engineers who will fix this problem. _There was a heavy, hissing pause on the airwaves. _I think you know exactly what you need to do. You're just holding out on everyone._

_You slagging glitch! If you think going into the Matrix is such a good idea, you can damn well do it yourself!_

There came a sharp laugh. _That'd shake up all those old analogs, wouldn't it?_

Prime snorted. _Don't tempt me._ He thought for a long moment, looking down at Perceptor's fallen form. Then he sighed. _Meet me in my quarters in four breems,_ he radioed.

_Wait - You're serious? _

_Yes, you blasted idiot. But if I'm going to do this, I'm sure as slag going to want you with me. This metaphysical stuff is a lot trickier than it looks, you know. _

Prime switched off before the Decepticon could reply, and turned to his chief medical officer. "I need to go soon," he said lamely. "Is there anything further you need from me?"

Ratchet gave a short, negative jerk of his head. "The rest of my team's on their way. We'll do what we can." At the repetition of those comfortless words, Prime fought down a sardonic smirk.

"But where are you going?" the medic demanded. "It's not like you to run out on a fellow Autobot!"

"I'm not running out on him, old friend," Prime replied. "I'm doing what I should have done for him a long time ago. What I should have done for all of us."

He gave the medic a long, wordless look. "Elita and Megatron will know where I am," he said, rubbing his chestplates as if they itched. "But neither of them will be able to follow me."

Ratchet's jaw dropped a scant inch. Then he stood to attention and saluted the tall red and blue mech, a solemnity he usually bothered with only under duress. "Good luck, Optimus."

"Thanks, my old friend. I am going to need it." Prime squared his shoulders and returned the salute. "Until I return," he said gravely. Then he turned on his heel, and strode quickly from the ruined building.

* * *

Optimus held out his hands to his two bondmates. "Stay with me," he said brusquely. "I'll need you both to anchor me."

The Autobot Commander lay on his berth, with Elita-One standing on his right side, and Megatron on his left. The one-time archivist was preparing to drop his soul into the greatest treasury of knowledge his race possessed.

He had carried the Matrix of Leadership for time beyond count. It was the sign and the seal of his calling. But Optimus very seldom plumbed its store of information. For although he respected the wisdom of the ancients, Prime preferred to map out his own path. And to his distress he'd found that the more he broke with the elders' tradition, the more painful it became to leave his essence naked in the face of their disapproval. A spark-bond with Megatron, he was sure, was not going to be met with rejoicing.

"If I'm not back in four breems," he said with a wry, humorless grin, "You'll have to come in and get me."

Elita snorted. "I might not be popular, if I did," she replied. "I respect the elders, but not all of them respect _you_. I'd have a word or two to say to them about that."

Optimus laughed. "Um, thanks?"

Megatron shot his bond-brother a wry, knowing grin. During his time in Prime's spark, Megatron had finally come to understand Prime's reverence for – and his reluctance to use – this sacred object. Entering the Matrix was not for the weak. It had been disappointing, to learn that the talisman demanded so much of its bearer to access.

Optimus sent a last, wordless glance of farewell to the two bots who shared in his soul. "Do it," he said gravely.

The Matrix-Bearer powered down his servos, his processor, and his laser core; but it was left to the experienced Elita to make the last few manual overrides. She and Megatron held tightly to his lifeless fingers, and watched as the strong blue spark of life that glowed within Prime's chamber flickered, quivered, and went out.

"Don't touch him!" the pink femme cried sharply, as Megatron leaped forward with a panicked yelp. Elita grabbed hold of his wrist and braced herself fiercely against him. "Don't touch him," she repeated. "At least, not his spark core or the Matrix chamber. This is delicate, and you've no idea what you're doing here."

The Decepticon stared at her from across Prime's body, his optics wide and his vents flared. He kept his mouth tightly closed, however. His self-control still held that far.

"It's all right," she assured him. "He's not gone." Her glance flicked down at her mate's empty shell. "Not gone forever, I mean," she amended. "He'll come back to us soon... As soon as he can. We just have to be patient."

As soon as she felt his arm slacken somewhat, she let go of him, and let her hand rest instead on the open frame of her bondmate. She wasn't ready yet to maintain contact with her old enemy for very long.

"It scared the Pit out of me too, the first time I saw him do it," she admitted, taking pity on him. "But he's in there, somewhere, and alive. You have to trust it. Trust _him_. And whatever happens," she added, glaring, "Don't you _dare_ let go of that hand! We may not be able to see him. But we're helping him now. Somehow."

* * *

It was always disorienting at first. Prime entered the Matrix as an essence alone, unclothed by the familiar protection of his body. Only his inner certainty of self kept him from dissolution.

Gradually, he would pull a semblance of form about him; formatting it out of the aether. He did his best, but the representation was not congruent with reality in the strictest sense. This was not a measure-for-measure copy of his frame out in the world; rather, it was an image of Optimus Prime as he saw himself to be. He was taller; his back simplified; and this time, without meaning to, he'd restored his discarded faceplate. Having a visible, physical form was comforting. But the image existed in his consciousness alone.

The Matrix was reality and unreality, past, present, and future all flowing together in a bewildering blur; a portion of the great Allspark from which he had come, and to which he must at some point return. It had no need for corporeal imagery. But it seemed to understand that its visitors did, and allowed them the means to fashion one.

There was no ground to walk on. But Optimus collected himself, and began to move forward.

And gradually, line by line and plane by plane, a visage solidified before Prime out of the swirling masses of space-time.

Alpha Trion had never been called to be a Prime. But he had borne the Matrix after Sentinel's death, keeping it hidden and safe until a new leader could be found and chosen. He had been honored with a position within the Matrix; and for this, Optimus was grateful. In this strange place, it was comforting to speak with an old and trusted friend. He made a respectful greeting.

"Optimus," the bearded apparition wheezed. "What brings you here?"

"I have made peace with Megatron," the Autobot Commander replied.

"That's wonderful to hear, my son."

"Yet all is not well with us," Prime interjected. "We must spark new femmes, in order to make our race whole again," he explained. "But as you know, the Key to Vector Sigma is lost to us. And even if we were somehow able to access its spark-giving capacities, it can no longer create a new feminine life-force. In order to do that, we must have the original female genesis codes. I have come here to find out if they can be recovered. Do you know where they can be found?" He did not ask if they were still on file. He refused to believe that the information might be lost forever.

The elder mech shook his head. "Sadly I do not." The old voice was high and reedy. "Indeed, that information may never have been contained within the Matrix, for there have been no new femmes sparked since the very dawn of our race." Seeing Prime's dejection, he added kindly, "But of course you must try. Perhaps, farther within..."

Optimus nodded. "I will try, my Father," he replied, employing the honorary title due to the bot who had shaped him for so long. As the old mech's bearded form began to unravel, Optimus pushed forward through it.

But the thin voice called after him. "Have a care, Optimus!" it quavered. "Do not sacrifice the present for the future! You must not lose your self in pursuit of this quest, no matter how pressing the need for answers might seem."

The Autobot Commander nodded. "I'll be careful," he replied. But Alpha Trion was already gone.

* * *

When the next face resolved itself out of the ever-changing vision, Optimus made a deferential bow before Sentinel Prime, and touched a fist to his chestplate in salute. He had served under the tall orange mech during his administration, and the two bots had known a slight acquaintanceship. Sentinel had been a thoughtful leader who often came down to the archives to research, to cross-check, to learn. Optimus respected him now just as he had then.

Every Prime had his essence preserved in the Matrix after death. But Optimus had always been particularly grateful to have the continued advice of his old mentor. Sentinel did not always agree with Optimus's methods. He'd called them too warlike. But despite their differences, the scholarly leader had proven himself an able guide throughout Prime's long tenure. Optimus found the old mech's encyclopedic knowledge of history invaluable, as he sought to understand the deep roots of the long Cybertronian Wars.

Sentinel's afterimage looked up with a jerk, his optics unfocused as if he'd been interrupted in the pursuit of some obscure fact hidden among the archives. He peered down at Optimus with a pleasant, if somewhat bemused expression. "What is it, young mechling?" he inquired kindly.

"I seek the femme genesis program," said Prime. "Can it be found here within the Matrix?"

The ghostly form nodded gravely. "It can indeed."

"Would you show me the way, please?" Optimus was relieved.

"Unfortunately, I cannot," the old leader replied. He smiled indulgently at the sight of Prime's obvious disappointment. "I do know know the location myself. I know only that it is here, far back at the very initiation of our race."

"I must go after it, then."

The orange-helmed face grew grim. "Be warned, Optimus. You have courage, and a strong will. But to obtain that which you seek, you will be required to proceed deeper into the Matrix than you have ever gone. I trust I do not need to remind you of the danger which such a journey poses to a naked spark. And even if you do reach the utmost beginning, I cannot be sure that you will find anything you can take back with you."

"I'll take your precaution under advisement, Sir."

Sentinel lowered his head. "Safe journey, my young friend."

Prime's face was set as he pressed on, pushing his way through the cloudy apparition. It was not this familiar old mech whom he feared. It was what lay beyond him.

* * *

Nova.

The black and white general rose up before him, barring his way. To Optimus, his form seemed to span the galaxies. "What brings you here this time, my young friend?" the tall ruler asked. Where Sentinel had used the term with genuine regard, Nova conveyed only his own tolerant disdain.

"It's been a long time since you last sought my wisdom," he continued, when Optimus said nothing. The tone was still outwardly charming, the voice rich and plummy – an affable veneer that hid the hard, proud soul beneath. But there was no mistaking the note of displeasure in it. Nova Prime gave a deep, mocking chuckle. "I hope that you haven't let Cybertron and all its moons slip through your fingers in your mistaken attempts to rule without my guidance, Orion."

Long ago, when the mantle of leadership was new and ill-fitting upon him, Optimus had been awed by Nova's grandeur. He had accepted his eminent predecessor's advice gratefully. In fact, the Autobot Commander had seldom pressed further into the Matrix than Nova's realm. The gigantic mech would consider it an affront if he did.

Back then, the winged Prime had seemed to take a tolerant amusement in his devoted new acolyte. But as time progressed, Optimus had learned more of Nova's true nature. And things between them had changed irrevocably.

Optimus had never recovered the innocence he'd lost when he'd first learned of the shadow that lay over the great heritage of the Primes. Far from the wise, gentle ruler that Optimus believed every Prime ought to be, Nova had been a despot. During his rule the Autobot Code was discarded, whenever its precepts got in the way of what Nova called progress. Nova Prime had sought power; he had hunted it into the darkness, and had eventually lost his soul to its pursuit.

Since learning of the fallibility of his fore-bearers, Optimus had been more reluctant to access the Matrix's database, and less trusting of the advice he was given there.

And after he'd lost the respect of his pupil, Nova held a particular disdain for the newest Commander.

But Optimus was here on a quest more important than his own personal likes and dislikes. "I'm here for the original femme program," he called up to the frowning immensity that was the image which Nova always projected of himself. His voice, deep and booming in life, seemed tinny and hollow in here.

Nova laughed him to scorn. "Femmes?" he cried. "Why ever would you need any more of them?" He peered down at Optimus in derision, like a galaxy taking notice of a single errant star, and cocked his head to one side. "Is it possible," he purred, "That the great war is no longer providing you with sufficient amusements?"

"The Great War is ended," flashed Optimus, with a burst of defiant pride. "Megatron and I have made the fraternal bond, and declared a permanent Ceasefire. I am here for the femme genesis codes, so that we can renew our counterparts, and begin to restore the ancient balance of our race."

All around him, the universe froze. The sudden silence was crushing.

"You did what?" Nova whispered, in a voice of pent-up thunder.

Angry whorls of orange light slashed across the sky, and a hungering wind rushed and tore at Optimus's essence. "How dare you?" Nova swept an unfathomably large hand across the universe as if to brush Prime's words aside like the stink of pollution. "You always were a weak link in the mighty chain of Primes," he proclaimed, "And I never did think you'd amount to much. I offered you a little training, in the hope that your reign would not prove too disastrous. And now you do _this-!_"

The huge face loomed over him, and Optimus felt tiny and afraid. "I told you time and again that the Decepticons were to be culled for weakness," the dark vision hissed. "With them brought back under our control, all their power might have been used to further the glory of Cybertron! The glory of the _Primes!"_

His lip curled. "But you wouldn't listen. You were too good for that. No, the weakling librarian took the one shard of glory he possessed and he cast it aside like trash... Threw it to right into the hands of that upstart drudge Megatron!" The mirage turned its back, its barred wings spread out in a vast, shunning wall. "You disgust me!" he said. "You shame your own heritage! Your unworthiness is immeasurable!"

Optimus wanted to bristle in anger, to fight back, to defend himself. But the blackened Prime's words had sunk into his soul, and his actions, once grand, now seemed foolish and base. He battered himself to go on. But Optimus instead began shrinking away, back into the safety of Sentinel's realm.

"No you don't!" Nova thundered, turning angrily back. A hand as large as solar systems reached out and plucked the red Autobot out of the aether. "How I longed to return and remove you from power!" he hissed. "But instead I am stuck here, forced to watch all those ages while you took everything I worked for and threw it all to the Smelter."

Prime flinched.

"But no more!" Nova boomed. "For what you have done, I shall destroy your despicable essence," he declared, "I'm sure there must be some mech out there who will have the strength of spark to wrest the Matrix from your gray, lifeless fingers. You've certainly proved you're not able to wield it!"

As a vast rolling cloud of slashing lightening closed in, and his essence began to tear, Optimus reached out with a desperate spark-plea to his beloved. "Elita!" he called. "Pull me back!"

* * *

He came into himself gasping, his fingers clamped crushingly around those of his bondmates. Electrical impulses arced between diodes in his open chest while the Decepticon and the femme restarted his systems as rapidly as they were able, given that they only had one hand free apiece.

"What happened?" demanded Elita. "You're shaking!"

"I couldn't do it," gasped Prime. "Oh Sweetheart, I-" He let go of their hands, rolled away from his Brother, and buried his face against Elita's pink plating in shame.


	16. Act V scene iv

_**Scene iv**_

It wasn't that Prime advertised his failure. But even the most oblivious of bots could see that he carried a new weight of guilt. They sensed it especially when he announced the new crackdown on femme-spark experimentation, in the wake of Scrapper and Perceptor's incapacitating accidents.

A team of engineers cast and fit new plating to the Contructicon's singed protoform, and while the Decepticon still moved with wincing tenderness, it was hoped that he would soon return to full function.

But Ratchet remained reticent about Perceptor. His spark was still not fully healed, even after a quartex. It sputtered weakly, almost as if it felt pain, in the offline scientist's carefully-monitored core.

The mechs of Cybertron worried, wondered, and gossiped; but no further information was forthcoming. And the Enforcers were adamant. So the half-finished femme shells were stowed away in at the backs of private lockers; and gradually, most of the mechs of Cybertron forgot their wild hope. They had tried so hard. But every one, even the Prime in whom they had placed so much hope, had failed.

The Leaders kept order as best they could. There were no further uprisings, and no others were put into permanent spark containment for breach of the peace.

But no one seemed to be enjoying life much, either. Autobots and Decepticons toiled away like drones, smoldering with dull resentment against the leaders who had brought them to this ignoble fate. If this was peace, then they hated it. There was no fire to fuel their sparks in such a dreary, purposeless existence.

Ultra Magnus prevailed upon the leaders to outlaw even the most lighthearted of sparring. It could so easily get out of control. "Give us a break!" the Enforcer implored. "If you want peace, then you'll give us the tools to keep it!" So it was strictly forbidden for members of opposing factions to even play at war.

Optimus was unhappy with the repressive laws he was laying down in the name of order; and Megatron fumed without bothering to disguise it. But they dared not loose their hold on the restless population they sought to rule. Not without some new course to set, some new dream that would be inspiring enough to wash away the ancient, inbuilt enmity.

For the time being, they set their mechs to reformatting the infrastructure of the planet. A few vorns before the Ceasefire, Cybertron had been captured in the orbit of a small, white star; and Shockwave had begun seeking out methods of harvesting this sun's energy and converting it to energon. But during the war, it had been almost impossible to make any headway with the project. New Decepticon structures were quickly demolished by the Autobots, who dared not allow their enemies access to a source of such power. Now Autobot and Decepticon soldiers toiled side-by-side to raise what Shockwave hoped would become four vast, gleaming solar energy collection complexes: one for each quadrant of Cybertron.

But no amount of labor would ever completely quench the habit of war; and Magnus and his deputies couldn't be everywhere at once. The medics from both factions tended not to inquire too closely when a patient gave a particularly improbable explanation of a surface injury or a twisted joint. After all, they would say with a knowing shrug, industrial accidents did happen now and then.

It was hoped that a few secret fistfights would be enough to relieve the pressure building up in the more belligerent mechs. But Ratchet, Hook, and their assistants kept a close tally of who was injured and how, and brought these reports to their respective leaders on a regular basis. No one, not even Megatron, wanted a return to the organized carnage of the gladiatorial pits.

But the two Commanders had fallen into some impromptu wrestling matches themselves. There was an element of shameful hypocrisy to their actions which stuck in the craw of both mechs – neither had ever been one for skulking around. But with tempers strained to the breaking point, it was that or lose control in front of the volatile mechs who looked to them for stability. So the Brothers invented code-signals, found secret meeting-places that could withstand the force of their clashes, made up plausible excuses for the scuffs and dents of combat, and skulked. Soul-bonded or not, they were used to slagging each other's skidplates; and they couldn't seem to stop now.

Elita was in on it all, of course. In fact, she usually refereed, since she was not yet entirely certain of the fighters' ability to restrain themselves.

Sometimes she even participated, leaving the unfought mech to arbitrate. Whether she faced Optimus or Megatron, Elita's combat was particularly focused and intense; and there was always a gleam in her bright optics that gave the larger mechs pause. Prime's bondmate had been tight-lipped about any resentment she felt toward either of the two bots who had so drastically altered her life without giving her so much as a warning. But occasionally, when her fingers tore into the tender connections beneath their armor, she allowed herself to enjoy their surprised yelps of discomfort. Elita lost more often than she won. But the satisfaction of the fight was what mattered.

Today she faced off against Prime in a long-abandoned warehouse that, judging from the scars on its walls, had provided cover to activities such as this on other occasions than this. She'd spent the past several orns organizing the distribution of the Autobot and Decepticon energon supplies. But this morning the Stunticons had refused to take their turns along with all the other ground-traveling mechs in transporting vital fuel to the out-flung regions. After three joors of arguing with Motormaster and his gang, Elita was more than ready to punch something.

Optimus grinned at her; and she gave him a predator's placid smile in return.

"All right you two idiots," Megatron called sternly. "Try not to leave any obvious marks!" Words from the Fight Pits rose unbidden from his memory, and he spoke without thinking: "Lay on!"

Optimus was a skilled fighter, larger and heavier than his bondmate. But Elita was light and fast, and the soldier's training she had undertaken, along with an instructive four million years spent undermining Shockwave's armies, had taught her to use those qualities to her advantage. Still smiling, she faded down and to the left as he lunged; and struck in underneath Prime's shoulder joint. She was pleased to hear a surprised grunt from the big mech, as her hand hit a cluster of sensitive wiring.

Prime snarled with mock ferociousness, and whirled to knock her off balance with a swing of his newly-numbed arm. He would never endanger her, but he knew better than to pull punches against his bondmate. Elita hit the ground hard, but fell into a roll. Coming up into a crouch, she lashed out a swift kick into the back of his leg.

The red Autobot stumbled down on one knee, swearing at the joint which had grown less dependable after repeated damage accrued in countless battles.

Elita knew his weaknesses. But Optimus was still faster than she'd planned for. As she came up behind him with a series of high-speed double-punches, he swiftly rotated on his damaged knee. Grinding the joint around on the rusty floor made him grimace with pain, but he grinned as he shot out a hand and grabbed hold of Elita's flying fist.

She hissed, and tried to twist out of his grip. But he pulled her in, locked her arm behind her, and dipped her backward over his thigh with a sweepingly romantic gesture. He leaned down, and touched his helm to hers, his engines racing.

"I win," he said.

"Slag." Elita kicked out at him halfheartedly. She still felt full of fight, her systems not yet slowed from the speed of combat. "That was over more quickly than I'd intended!"

"Save it for the rematch," Optimus suggested, winking. Then he bent and whispered something inaudible into the femme's receptor.

She snorted. "Hold on to your dreams, my Orion," she said dryly. "Because a dream's all _that _ tidbit's ever going to be!"

Optimus laughed and helped Elita to stand. "Better luck next time," he said lightly, without indicating if he was referring to himself or to her.

The Prime pulled himself painfully to his feet. "Why is it always this knee?" he asked the universe in general. He reached down to the injured joint, and made a few adjustments. "That should hold it for now," he muttered.

He straightened, set his shoulders, and called out to Megatron. "You want a piece of this?"

"I'd like several," the Decepticon retorted with an evil grin. "But I'd better stop at one, or Ratchet won't let us out of the base any more..."

And with that, he leapt at Prime.

* * *

Afterward, neither of them was certain at what point the fight had gotten out of control.

Elita watched with increasing alarm as friendly grappling and the usual lighthearted threats shifted somehow, and the play became deadly serious. But by the time she'd realized that something was terribly wrong, it was too late. Her frantic shouts went unheard by the two clashing mechs. Powerless to stop the raging force that drove them, Elita could only watch in increasing fear. With the exception of the gigantic guardians and the combiner teams, there were few who could dare to intervene when Optimus and Megatron met in all-out war.

Megatron wasn't certain how he had gotten him there. All he knew was that the Autobot Prime, his sworn enemy, was at his mercy. And Megatron did not know the meaning of the word.

Optimus heaved and struggled. But the black hands at his throat dug in between the cords, and pinched off his main motor conduit. He was helpless, his straining servos barely able to move. And a heavy gray knee pressed down on his chest, grinding him inexorably into the floor.

Through a searing red fog, the Decepticon gloated over his fallen foe. A sudden surge of ecstasy spiked through his circuits, drowning his reason in a flash-flood of triumph. "Surrender, Great Prime," he exulted. The black fusion cannon hummed with barely-contained power as he aimed it directly into the straining mech's face. "You have failed," he leered. "Now submit to your master like a good little Autobot slave."

Prime's optics blazed white in blind fury at Megatron's demand. He snarled out some wordless, strangled cry; and wrenched an arm free, almost tearing it off in the process.

"NEVER!" he roared, sending a wild, all-or-nothing roundhouse into the Decepticon's jaw. His scream of defiance echoed round and around the old warehouse.

Megatron blinked down at the red mech in wakening dismay, and lifted a hand to his unhinged mouth. Leaking energon dripped from his fingers.

Prime gaped up at him, and scrambled out from beneath the stunned Decepticon. His overheated engine hissed with steam, his vents flared and fans roared in an emergency cooling protocol, and his circuits sparked and shorted. Stunned, he touched a tentative hand to his mangled shoulder.

The two bond-brothers sat down in the rust, and stared out at each other in blank horror.

Elita took a few careful steps toward them, reaching out in mingled wonder and alarm. But she found she did not dare to speak, for fear of what might happen if she broke the silence.

Optimus transformed abruptly. The Bearer of the Matrix tore through the wide doors without bothering to open them, and raced away down the road. It would be almost three orns before anyone would find him.

* * *

"I still don't understand what happened."

Megatron sat forlornly on an examination table in Ratchet's medbay. He knew tradition dictated that he should go to Hook instead. But he figured that access to Cybertron's best medic should be counted as one of the perks of unification. Besides, he could never have spoken of his current unease to the pompous Constructicon.

"Oh, you understand it perfectly well," Ratchet returned unsympathetically. He tilted the Decepticon's broken face into the light, and snuffed. "Serves you both right for fighting. You're lucky this wasn't any worse."

"You think I don't know that?" Megatron suppressed a shudder. "I could have _killed_ him." He clenched his fists against his knees, and fought to sound like a leader of mechs and not like a frightened newling. "But I thought- I thought that with the- you know, with the bond and everything, we couldn't-"

The Medic's reply was muffled, intent as he was on reattaching the Decepticon's jaw. "You two have been enemies for more vorns than I'd like to count," he said flatly. "Can you really expect all that to disappear in a magical shower of sparklight?" It was irreverent, but Ratchet had no time for niceties.

Megatron shrugged. "It would have been easier," he complained.

Ratchet chuffed impatiently. "And it would have put you even more out of touch with the rest of your soldiers, who are wondering why you suddenly expect them to change their entire way of life – and what gives you the right to demand that of them."

When Megatron made as if to protest, Ratchet held up a hand for silence. "It doesn't matter." He sighed, and shook his head, pressing a hand to his brow. "Where's Prime now?" he asked. "Should I be dragging his aft into my medbay as well?"

"His shoulder was damaged... But knowing him he'll probably patch it together himself," Megatron replied hesitantly. "I'm much more concerned with the he was acting..."

The gray mech surged up to his feet, impatient and jittery. "It's not like him to run out on a situation, no matter how upset he is!" he declared. "He's the damn slagging _Prime!_ It's his _job_ to be cool-headed!"

"Where is he?" asked Ratchet more brusquely. "And sit down! I'm not finished."

"How'm I supposed to know?" the Decepticon shouted. "I'm not his keeper!" His gruff voice was tight. "Elita will find him and sort him out. She knows-"

"When are you going to have the solid brass bearings to clean up your own messes?" the Medic interrupted. He gave the last bolt a hard twist, tugged sharply on Megatron's jaw to make sure it was set tight enough, and threw down his socket wrench onto the tooltray. He met the Decepticon's red gaze with his own hard blue optics.

"Prime's out there because of what _you _did," he scolded. "And _you_ have an obligation to help him." Ratchet pointed an ironclad finger in the direction of the exit. "So get out there and fragging well find your bond-brother, Megatron; or by the Matrix, I'll disassemble you myself!"

* * *

Rumble still wasn't used to living with Autobots. His retooled frame still sat uneasily on his protoform, and he felt a sharp pang of sadness every time he transformed and returned to a bright yellow chest compartment, instead of the familiar dark blue one. He and Frenzy didn't talk much about Soundwave, but memories of their carrier played over and over in their processors.

To cover his lingering nervousness when he walked among a host of former enemies who were all much taller than he, Rumble enjoyed finding things in their adopted home to complain about. Their energon was nasty; his new cassette mode was ugly; and Blaster wasn't nearly as cool as Soundwave.

But the one thing he could never complain about was the washracks. The Autobots didn't know how good they had it, there. A variable temperature gauge on the cleanser, instead of a soldier's choice of 'cold' and 'colder'; a long hose instead of a single, ceiling-mounted head; five – _five! –_ different pressure settings on the spray nozzle... And it didn't end there. These Autoslaggers also had a steam room to help loosen the more stubborn grit, and a blow-drying stand to make sure that the gunk didn't all just stick back onto you again. Thanks to the vainer 'bots, there was even an entire shelf of waxes, armor protectants, and a bucket of fresh cloths to apply them.

Rumble's processor had boggled when he'd first seen the place. Now, as he swung along down the corridor in pursuit of a rinse-off, the purple Cassetticon had to fight back a grin that kept tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Striving for nonchalance as he came up to the entrance, he began whistling a catchy, obscene little ditty that he and Frenzy had made up to highlight the idiosyncrasies of their new companions.

He skidded to a stop in the doorway, however; and the tune in his vocalizer fell away in an unmelodious gurgle.

Optimus Prime was occupying one of the taller stalls. The Autobot Commander leaned into one of the cubicle walls, his elbows locked to hold his weight. His head drooped down between his arms. One shoulder had obviously been weakened by recent damage and inexpertly repaired. His loose leg hung limply beside the single locked knee-joint that held him upright.

As Rumble looked up through the clouds of rising steam, he could see that the towering mech's armor was flared out around his frame supports in the rarely-seen emergency response to a dangerously overheated engine. Beneath the sound of the spray, an angry hissing could be heard from the coolant escaping from Prime's super-pressurized systems. Yet the crazy Autobot just stood there, letting the heated liquid fall on him, looking for all the world like he'd welcome a blowout.

Rumble swore quietly. Restoration was dirty work, and his joints were almost fused with an itchy, rusty powder. He was almost willing to brave the presence of that unnerving, silent figure, if it meant he could slip into his favorite small stall on the end of the row, and wash all of that grit from his linkages. But a second glance up at the tall red Commander, leaning into the wall with his head bowed beneath the spray, sent him backtracking stealthily out of the room. Rumble had spent enough time with Megatron to know a black mood when he saw one; and he knew when retreat was the only safe option.

He hurried down hallways in search of his brother, returning as always to the one stable thing that remained to him. He didn't like what he had seen. If something had upset Optimus Prime to this extent, it had to be bad. And when Bad like that happened to the ones in charge, what hope was there for cannon-fodder like himself and his diminutive twin?

* * *

The temperature gauge had been set as high as it would go. But although the hot liquid poured down through Prime's every joint, he still did not feel clean. Not even after almost five breems. By now he'd been under the spray for so long now that his overtaxed sensors hardly felt the boiling cleanser beating down on them.

Once in a while he stirred – shifting his weight to the other leg, or letting his damaged arm fall loosely to his side. But it was the lifeless, listless motion of an automaton.

He heard it though, when a familiar voice beside him spoke his name.

"Orion."

Optimus slumped, in resignation and in anger. "You know," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't recall ever giving you permission to use that term." Reluctantly, he turned to face the mech who'd dared to accost him. "What's your problem, Megatron?"

"That's a question you should ask yourself, Prime."

Optimus let out a rasping cough of a laugh. "Touche."

"What the frag are you doing in here?"

Optimus chuffed. "Hiding, I guess."

"From?"

"Myself. Everyone. Everything. You."

Megatron processed this for a moment. Then he asked carefully, "Who _am_ I, Prime?"

Prime's reply was quick and acid. "The greatest traitor that Cybertron has ever known."

Megatron shrugged off the caustic words. Well, all of them except for 'greatest'. He'd keep that one, he decided. But Prime's appearance troubled him more than he liked to admit. It was time to get to the bottom of all this.

"Who am I, Optimus?" he asked again, taking single step closer.

Prime's optics flickered. He hunched away, but the washrack was suddenly very small. "You're _Megatron, _blast it! A rebel, a psychopath, a murderer!"

Megatron moved forward one last step, so that the two mechs were only inches apart. "Who am I, 'Rion?" he asked gently.

Prime slammed a fist into the side of the cubicle. He uncurled his fingers, and pressed both hands against his denuded face. His reply, when it came, was a tight-clenched hiss. "My Pit-spawned slagging bond-brother!"

"That's right, you fragged-up crazy glitch," the gray mech replied quietly. He put a hand on the Autobot's streaming shoulder. "And don't you ever forget it!" He pulled the red mech close, oblivious to the pounding spray.

There was a quick series of sharp _tinks_ as Megatron's armor adjusted to the heat. When the solvent reached his sensors, he jumped back with a surprised yelp of pain. "How hot did you set this thing, you idiot?" he demanded. Darting a hand behind Prime, he shut down the boiling barrage.

"Primus be fragged!" the Decepticon exclaimed, hopping up and down in an attempt to shake the burning liquid from his joints. "Were you trying to melt yourself down?"

"I might have, if it helped," the Autobot replied belligerently.

Without the all-pervasive roar of the spray, the room seemed eerily empty and still. The only sounds now were the patter of dripping solvent that cascaded from the steaming chassis of the two tall mechs, and the quiet staccato clicks their armor let out as it cooled.

Still angry, Optimus began to swear. He worked systematically down the list of all the worst words that he knew, applying them to his gray bond-brother in alphabetical order. He stopped with a grunt somewhere in the 'S's though, when he realized he'd learned most of the words from Megatron.

He whacked his helm a couple times against the Decepticon's gilt head, and hoped he'd put a few new kinks into that ridiculous gilt crest. "Smelter-loving child of the Unmaker," he finished glumly.

"That's me," replied Megatron. "Down to the last bolt."

Optimus reared back, meeting the Decepticon's red gaze without a trace of his usual good humor. "You injured me in every conceivable way," he said. He rubbed at his chest, wincing.

"I did."

"It was always _personal_ with you," persisted Prime. "I've beaten you into stasis a number of times. But that kind of thing was never enough for you. You always tried to break my spirit as well."

"That's right," said Megatron, agreeing.

Prime's voice rose in volume along with his temper. "You disassembled me and kept my head for a trophy!" he accused. "That seemed a bit much, even coming from you!"

"Oh yes!" the gray mech grinned, remembering. "That _was_ a lot of fun."

"You punched a hole through my chest and tried to crush my spark core!" shouted Prime. "Do you have any idea how much that _hurt?"_

"I do," replied Megatron soberly, giving him a level look. "And I won't pretend it wasn't deeply satisfying."

"You are an _aft_."

"That's right. I am."

"_I hate you." _

The last few falling drops of water almost drowned out Prime's whispered admission. But Megatron heard it, and felt oddly relieved. "That's all right, Ops," he said softly. "Your hatred I can take." He closed the gap that had grown between them, and tightened his arms for an instant around the other's wet frame.

_I will love you forever, Brother._

Prime looked up, startled. The gray mech's words had not been spoken audibly, but had come instead into his spark itself via the bond he shared with the Decepticon Commander. Direct communion was something even he and Elita had hardly ever been able to achieve; and yet here was Megatron, Destroyer of Worlds, reaching into him as easily as if his spark had been on open display. He fought the connection, angry that his mortal enemy could share in something so sacred, angry that there was no place left for him to hide.

But there was no guile in the old gray warrior's affection. Enfolded in that dark and fierce devotion, Optimus loosed a little of the fear he'd held onto for so long. Slowly, he let his weary head drop onto the other's gray shoulder, and let it lie there.

"Why must everything you do be so slag-damned _aggravating_?" the Autobot demanded, throwing a fast, half-muffled punch into the Decepticon's midsection.

"I learned it from the best," said Megatron sardonically, wincing for effect and rubbing at his middle.

Optimus felt his audial antenna scrape against the other's sharp-cut headplate; and he snorted. Hardly a day passed in which the two mechs did not lose a spot of paint or two in their childish tests of strength and petty games of one-upsmanship. It was a habit so ingrained that it was comforting.

Prime dug his fingers into the spaces between the other's scuffed plating. "Just promise me one thing," he said. Cydraulics whined in protest as the red mech's grip tightened enough to leave dents. "Please, Megatron," he begged. "Please."

"What?" the Decepticon demanded. "Slag, Ops. What in the Pit-?"

"Just don't betray us all."

Megatron jerked away from Prime, his scuffed frame rigid, his expression cold. "Are you telling me you actually _believed_ what Grimlock said that day?"

"Shouldn't I at least consider it?" Prime shot back. "I've learned to trust his instincts."

Megatron said nothing. He was too enraged to speak.

"I will fight you again if I must," said Prime, continuing doggedly down this undesirable road. "I will pull my forces from the ashes, and defend our people against you to the end – the bitter end. But please," he said again, "I beg you, Megatron, don't ask it of me."

"And why would I do that?" the Decepticon ground out with an effort.

Optimus threw out his arms in frustration, and winced as his knuckles clanged loudly off of the dividing wall. "Any number of reasons!" he declared. "Boredom! Pride! _Habit!_" Speaking with forced calm, he went on, "I know I've every reason to trust you, Megatron. But I cannot quite persuade myself that you won't scrap my chassis while I'm offline, enslave Elita, terminate anyone who opposes you, and declare yourself Supreme High-Overlord of Cybertron." He made a wry face. "You have to admit it'd be your style."

He met the other's flaring red optics, and shrugged. "You're my bond-brother, Megatron. And I don't want to change that. But you're also filed under 'Mortal Enemy' in my processor. And it seems that the file-format is permanent."

The Decepticon stood frozen for an interminable instant. Then with a choking snarl he grabbed Optimus roughly about the head. "Now you listen to me, Prime," he scowled, twisting the Autobot's neck so that he could hiss directly into the tall mech's tilted audial. "Listen _well_, my Brother; and _remember. _Because I'm getting pretty damn tired of telling it to you_._

"Before our ridiculous bond," he snarled, his voice pinched thin by anger, "I never smiled without anger. I never laughed without contempt. I hated everyone I knew, and everyone I knew returned my hatred. But since then..." He broke off, his vocalizer jamming, and pounded a mute fist against the red mech's shoulder.

"I have a _family_, now," he whispered, resisting with effort the urge to pound Prime a lot harder than he was doing. "Can you honestly believe I'd sacrifice you and Elita just to go back to my solitary throne of dead mechs? Because if you really think that," he hissed, "You're more foolish than I ever dreamed. And that's saying something, Ops!"

Megatron took a step back, grabbed hold of Prime's helm in both hands, and clanged his head against the Autobot's brow. "I am your fragging _Brother_, you Autobot slagger. And I _like_ it. So enter that into that permanent record of yours, and don't you _dare_ file it under 'pending!'"

Optimus couldn't help it. He laughed. Just a chuckle, but it was enough to corrode his last doubts. Enough, at least, for now. He rubbed some flecks of loosened paint off of his dented helm, then threw an arm around Megatron's shoulder. "You are the most obnoxious, overbearing rust-bucket I've ever had the misfortune to meet!" he declared.

"And you," returned Megatron, "Are the most stubborn, hard-headed pile of scrap in all Cybertron!" He huffed, and smacked Prime's back in friendship. "But it looks like I'm stuck with you."

Prime struck a heroic pose. "Bond-brothers forever!" he proclaimed. "Together we are unstoppable!"

He returned the Decepticon's headbutt with interest, taking a few more scrapings of paint off in the process. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thanks." Then he grinned. "Now let's get back out there and save the slagging day!"

* * *

But Optimus had not gone two steps when he froze, speechless. His mouth opened in wonder. He shut it deliberately with an audible snap.

"What?" Megatron asked him, perplexed.

"I know how we can save the day."

"Really? I know how to make the sun shine out of my aft." Megatron was confused – a sensation he detested.

Prime ignored the snide comment. "I'm going back," he said.

The Autobot Commander sounded more hopeful than he had in a quartex. This would have been encouraging, if Megatron had had some idea what his bond-brother was talking about. "Back to where?" he demanded.

"Into the Matrix."

"You're- ?" The gray mech raised his hands to protest. "_Why? _Don't you remember what happened last time, you glitching idiot?"

"I do," said Prime gravely. "But things are going to be different this round." His optics gleamed with a dangerous blue light.

The Decepticon sidled away. "You're starting to worry me, brother-mine," he said nervously. "_How_ is it going to be different?"

Optimus grinned. "Because this time," he said, pursuing the retreating Decepticon, "I'm taking you and Elita in with me."

Megatron's startled yip echoed around the washracks. "What?" he shrieked. "_No!"_

But Prime wasn't listening.

"It's the _Matrix, _Megs," he laughed. "You're usually trying to make me _give_ it to you! Now's your chance, my old nemesis!"

"I never said I- _Stop calling me 'Megs'!_"

Optimus waved a hand to cut him off, and opened his comm._ Elita!_ he radioed. He was too excited to heed the Decepticon's frantic protestations. He simply grabbed hold of the other's armor to prevent his escape. _Get down to my quarters, Sweetheart. I know how to do it._

_I should hope so by now,_ she replied testily.

The femme leader's synapses were frayed from long worry; and she was low on fuel after spending the past 500 breems searching for her missing bondmate. Yet now here he was, popping up out of nowhere without explanation or apology. As usual. She fought down a strong urge to swear.

_What are you talking about, Optimus? And w__hat are you doing to Megatron to make him squeal like that? _

Megatron, who'd been listening in out of self-preservation, broke into the channel. _Elita, you have to stop him! He thinks he's going to- _

_-And why did neither of you think to comm me before this? _she demanded. _Just how long ago did you find him, Megatron?__A micron of thoughtfulness would have been nice.__I've been driving around this whole planet for orns, while you two-_

Prime interrupted, before things could get any further out of hand._ I'll explain when we get there, sweetheart. Just- please. It's important._

_Really._ Elita did not sound impressed. But the two mechs heard her transform before she cut the connection. So they did the same.

The big rig and heavy tank rolled out down the long open highways; with Megatron objecting violently all the way.


	17. Act V scene v

_**Scene V**_

"So this is how we'll do it." The Autobot Commander illustrated his words with exuberant gestures, as he paced eagerly back and forth across the confined space of his quarters. "Each of you is bonded to me. My spark is linked to the Matrix. You two will bond your sparks to mine, and then all three of us will enter the Matrix together." He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. "They won't have seen this coming! By Primus, this time we'll be sure to get those codes!"

Neither bot spoke in reply. Elita's lips tightened in anger. Megatron gave a realistic impression of a mech who had just been cordially invited to go for a dip in the Smelting Pool.

Optimus reached out and took the hands of his unenthusiastic bondmates. "Without you, alone, I failed," he said. "But I believe if we do this as a unit, we will succeed."

Even in his enthusiasm, however, Optimus could sense the other bots' reluctance. "This is something we three are meant to do together," he explained. "I am as certain of this as I have ever been of anything in my life."

The two bots still said nothing. Taking their silence for acquiescence, Optimus ducked his head in gratitude, and turned away.

He walked over to a little stand he kept in one corner of the room. It usually held a small collection of datatracks laid down by Cybertron's ancient poets and chroniclers. Prime emptied its contents onto his berth, and dragged the table out into the middle of the room.

Then he opened up his chestplates. The Matrix of Leadership did not come easily. The locks which held it in its place were almost fused with the passage of uncounted time. But he managed to remove it; and he placed it gently on the little stand.

It felt strange to take it out of himself, and see it lying there. The Matrix had become a part of him, and looking at it now was like looking a severed limb.

But it was mesmerizing. The crystal at the center glowed with living energy. Its blue light illuminated the small room, casting black shadows up behind the three watching bots, and flickering over the reflective metal of their bodies. It carried with it an undefinable sense of portent.

Once more, the Prime took his two bondmates' hands. "And now, my dears," he smiled, "Let's go get those codes!"

* * *

Neither of the two bots moved. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"No," said a quiet voice.

Prime and Megatron both turned in surprise. The word had been Elita's.

"But-!" Optimus was taken aback.

"No." Elita met his gaze, resolute.

"You don't mean-"

"I mean no!" she repeated. "I will not do this for you. And it looks to me like Megatron's been trying to say the same thing! But you haven't been _listening_, dear one. You charge ahead, assuming that everyone else will follow – no matter the cost." She lifted her chin and faced up to him stiffly. "I love you," she said, "But I won't do this for you."

"Why-?" Optimus floundered.

"Did you ever stop to realize that you are essentially asking me to bond with Megatron?"

Prime's jaw went slack. "I didn't think-"

"You never do," she broke in. "And that's the problem."

The mech at the heart of their argument began inching away. He'd been dreading a quarrel like this, and did not want to be caught in the middle of it. But Elita shot out a swift hand, and grabbed hold of his arm before he could make good his escape.

"No you don't!" she declared, pulling him sharply back into the circle of Matrix-light. "You'll stay here and hear me out, Megatron. I'm more than just a companionable bonus that comes free with Prime's spark."

"I never thought-" the gray mech objected.

"Don't lie," Elita said curtly.

She deliberately slowed her revving engine, clenched her fists, and met the broad gray warrior's fiery gaze. "I am able to stand in your presence without discomfort... most of the time," she said with a grimace. "But being a part of your soul is something else entirely. I have no desire to try it."

Megatron felt slapped by her rejection. He'd thought that Elita had accepted him. After all, she'd told him so herself. And as time passed and they'd grown more accustomed to each other, he had welcomed the beginnings of a real friendship with the cautious femme. For although he'd resisted it, had told himself over and over that it was foolish and weak, the gray mech loved Elita with an intensity that almost troubled him.

He turned his resentment on Prime. "You can't ask her to do this. You don't have the right!" In bitterness, he added, "You can't make her wade through the sludge in my soul. It would fragging-well _kill_ her!" He shifted in angry embarrassment, unable to stand still. "You ought to know that better than anyone," he reminded his bond-brother curtly. "Have you forgotten what all of my filth did to you?"

Before Prime could object, Megatron barreled on. "Don't expect your own bondmate to sacrifice her spark just to support this precious new plan of yours! You're the Bearer of Ultimate Wisdom!Stop being a selfish aft-head and start acting like the Prime you're supposed to be!"

"Stop it!" Elita cut in. Her voice was pinched; her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I don't need _you_ of all mechs to defend me, Megatron," she began, "And I don't need your protection, either, Optimus. What I need is for everyone to stop treating me like I'm a mindless extension of Prime! I'm a sentient being too, you know!" She hunched in her shoulders, and struggled to control her anger. "Now shut up, the both of you, and let me _think _for a nanosec!"

Elita stared into the blue light shimmering within the crystalline center of the Matrix. There it was, lying before her on Prime's little side-table: this thing to which all Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike, gave willing or unwilling reverence.

The old curiosity tugged at her again. Elita had always wondered what it would be like to travel into the Matrix the way Optimus did. She held out her palm above the bright crystal, and could feel its raw energy – like heat emanating from the blue fire within.

It was tempting. But she shot a glance at Megatron, and shivered. Her fingers curled into a fist; and she pulled her hand back, optics dimming.

The Matrix had first entered her life long ago, when it had brought an end to the unremarkable routine she had shared with Orion Pax. In a way it had taken Orion from her as well, calling him to rise above his station and become the messenger of Primus himself.

More recently, the Matrix had prompted her bondmate to take his foremost enemy into his own soul. It had been the right thing to do, certainly. But the imperious artifact had given no consideration for the effects of such action on her.

And now the old relic had decided she should make yet another self-sacrifice.

She could sense its soft pull. She could feel what it wanted. But Elita did not want to obey.

She fought back a strong urge to hurl the thing to the floor. What a relief it would be to stand back and watch it shatter! But of course such a thing was impossible. The Matrix was made of impervious materials not found anywhere else in the galaxy; it would last many evorns to come. And it would continue to send forth its relentlessly correct, ever unfeeling demands. Elita revered it; but she hated it, too.

"You should damn-well have asked me!" she cried out suddenly; armor rattling with the strength of her rage. "Why couldn't you have_ asked?_"

Optimus was taken aback by this uncharacteristic outburst. He reached out to her, but Elita thrust his hand aside with a burst of profanity that made even Megatron flinch.

"How _dared_ you go behind my back like that?" She battered a fist against her bondmate's windshield, starring a flat pane of glass. "No 'By the way Elita, would you mind if we bonded?' Not one coded ping to let me know the situation. Not even a _warning_-!"

She drew back, seeking control but finding only anger. "What exactly _am_ I to you?" she demanded. "Do you really believe that you can take me into your spark, and then treat me like one of your drones?"

"I'm sorry," Prime sputtered. "It all happened too fast. But sweetheart," he remonstrated, "You said you understoo-"

"Of course I understood!" Elita's finely-wrought features buckled as she fought her emotions. "It was necessary, it was for a worthy cause – and it was a betrayal of your sparkmate," she spat. "You may throw yourself gladly on the sacrificial altar; but the rest of us mortals tend to be a whole lot more selfish." Her vocalizer jammed, and she stamped in frustration. In a voice that was half laugh, half sob, she forced out, "Do you realize that I actually feel _guilty_ that I'm still so upset about this? I mean," she went on raggedly, "I ought to shut up and be happy that things have turned out as well as they have, shouldn't I?"

Optimus stepped up to her quickly, and put a firm hand on her shoulder. "I don't _ever_ want you to just 'shut up and be happy,'" he rumbled.

He peered down into her flickering blue optics. "But Elita... After- afterward, when I was within your spark, I felt more than anything else your determination to accept what had happened." His brows knit with concern. "I opened up fully to you; tried to help you understand, so that we could all move forward without any lingering resentment." He looked up to where Megatron skulked in the shadows. "But it seems that we _all_ underestimated how difficult it would be to adjust to this new family." He rolled his torn shoulder, still not seated quite right in the joint. He sighed. 'Difficult' didn't even begin to cover it.

Elita stood coldly aloof beneath his steadying hand, resisting the impulses of well-worn circuitry that would usually have sent her curving her body into the comfort of the tall mech's familiar angles. Determinedly, she held herself apart from him. And Optimus did not try to pull her closer.

Prime stroked a thumb down the taut line of her jaw, then stepped away from her with a small smile of regret. Elita was beautiful to him, not because he was a connoisseur of build-types, but because she was the femme he had loved almost from the moment he had come online. Even the smallest rivet in her frame shone in Prime's processor, because it was a part of Elita-One.

Though he would never willingly have hurt her, his duty to his people had come before his duty to his bondmate more times than he liked to admit. And without quite realizing he was doing so, Optimus had indeed come to take her consent for granted.

He stared blankly down at the Matrix of Leadership, still glowing remotely there on the table. Slowly, he shook his head. He'd settle this not as the Prime, not as the anointed Bearer; but as a member of a struggling bond-family.

He retrieved an old, little-used polishing cloth from a drawer, and placed it over the relic so that its light might not shine so accusingly into the room. Then he went and sat down heavily on his berth.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Prime said quietly. "I've bungled this whole thing." He looked up into the hardened stares of his mates, and asked, "Can we start over?"

Elita raised an eloquently sardonic brow. But she sat down beside Prime, making a point of not touching him.

Megatron muttered something inaudible. He felt out of place, out of touch, and forgotten. But if being remembered meant taking a trip willy-nilly into the Matrix, he wasn't sure he wanted to be noticed after all.

But after an awkward moment or two, the gray mech lowered himself onto the opposite end of the bunk, as far from Elita as possible. He folded his hands tightly between his knees, and tried unconvincingly to look relaxed.

They sat together without speaking for several long kliks.

Finally, and more as if to declare her allegiance than from love, the pink femme laced her fingers through Prime's. Optimus looked down at her hand, and smiled ruefully. "Thanks, dear one," he said. "And for what it's worth, sweetheart, I really am sorry."

"You should be." The voice, surprisingly, was Megatron's.

For an instant, Optimus flared. "It's not as if you would have given me the time! You know you would have backed out if I'd said I wanted to contact-" He broke off, deliberately slowing his engine. "We'll never know, I suppose," he said quietly. "But regardless of what might, or perhaps what _should_ have been, I am grateful to have you as bondmates. _Both_ of you."

There was another long silence, but the hard chill between the three bots was beginning to melt at the corners.

"Look here," Prime said suddenly, "I'm very good at soldering. I've had a lot of practice. But with bondmates..." Prime shook his head, and smiled ruefully. "I'm not so good with bondmates."

"We'd noticed," Elita said blandly.

Optimus put a tentative arm around Elita's shoulders to see if she would let him. When she did, he drew her in gratefully. "You're right, of course, and I should have thought of it sooner. I don't know what exactly will happen if you and Megatron join your sparks up with mine." He gave her the old grin that had belonged once to Orion Pax, and shrugged. "I guess I just assumed that, if you didn't want to bond, you wouldn't. I'd never analyzed the physics of the thing."

Gently, he touched his brow to hers. "You have the right to be angry, dear one; and you may refuse with good conscience. I shouldn't have so lightly asked this of you. But it's a habit; I'm the Prime, and I'm used to doing things out of responsibility rather than choice-"

"The Unwanted Responsibility can hear you talking, you know," Megatron put in dryly.

"Slagging glitch-head!" Optimus broke off speechifying, and turned to butt his helm against the other's dark head. "I wouldn't undo this particular 'responsibility' for all of Cybertron," he whispered.

He pulled the two bots close, wishing he could communicate the fathomless love he bore for Elita, and the fierce fidelity he felt toward Megatron. He tried haltingly to send his own spark energy out to them. He was unsure what he should say at first, but found as he made the attempt that he'd known the right words all along.

_I will love you forever._

Elita touched a hand to her chest in surprise. Megatron gave a startled grunt, then threw Prime a knowing look. "Been taking a few lessons recently?" he smirked.

"What 'lessons'?" Elita asked sharply.

"Oh sweetheart..." Optimus hated the fact that Elita felt undermined by Megatron's presence in his spark. "He's better at direct spark-communion than I am. That's all." He gave Megatron a devious grin before adding in a sing-song, "And he loves me forever..."

The Decepticon smacked the back of Prime's helm. "Watch it, scraplet," he warned. "Or I'll use my skills to send you a load of bile that'll keep you out of recharge for a quartex!"

Optimus snorted, unfazed. "I don't think it's possible to send malware to a sparkmate through your link-" He broke off, as a new thought struck him, and turned to face his bond-brother. "I don't believe you'd download something hurtful onto _anyone_ you loved," he said, with emphasis.

The Decepticon chuffed, but said nothing.

The Autobot Commander straightened. "Megatron," he said, "You know as well as I do that despite all your efforts to convince yourself that you're spiky, badaft, and too dangerous to love, you'd rather die than hurt Elita. I've seen the way you care for her." He shifted his gaze back and forth between the two bots in dawning realization; and a great weight of worry seemed to slip from his shoulders. "I think I _could_ trust you to take care of her."

He turned to Elita. "Do _you_ trust him?"

Elita considered making a flippant comment about whether the Decepticon could trust _her_ not to slag _him_. But she looked into the face of the mech who had once tried to kill her, saw the depth of affection he bore her, and changed her mind. "Yes," she said, in a shock of relief. "I suppose I do."

Optimus hugged her tightly. "Thank you, sweetheart," he whispered, inadequately.

"How about that, oh Great Harbinger of Doom?" he crowed, with a punch to his bond-brother's shoulder. "We trust you! The Creator Himself is probably surprised." More quietly, he added, "Put _that_ into your permanent record, my friend. And not filed under 'Pending'!"

Megatron gave him a look. "Turn about is fair play," he said darkly.

Prime hunched in his shoulders. "I know," he replied. "But old habits die hard. It might do me good," he admitted, "To reaffirm our bond."

"So you're not just planning to use me as a shield then," said Megatron nastily. "You're looking for an excuse to get under my plating again, is that it?"

"Never say anything like that again," Optimus chided him sharply. "You know me better than to think it." But he wasn't angry. He knew all too well how the gray mech hated being a tool in another mech's schemes.

"I suppose in a way it's true, though," he admitted. "I had thought that a simple, one-time link would be sufficient foundation for us to build on. But as has become painfully obvious during the past few orns-"

"Few quartex," interrupted Elita.

"-I was wrong."

Optimus drew them both closer. "Megatron, I've been interacting with you on the basis of who you were before all this. I need to know who you are _now_." He gave the other's armor a whack. "It's fun to complain about being linked to you and all," he said. "But sometimes..." he shrugged. "I miss my Brother."

Megatron huffed, as if in disbelief. He tried to look as if he didn't care. But he couldn't quite manage the old steely silence. "Sometimes, I miss you too," he muttered. The Decepticon ducked his head. "It's hard out here for me," he grumbled. "And you know it, too. Fragger."

Prime pulled him in tight. "I've got your back, ya great lummox," he whispered.

"So do I, you know," put in Elita. "It's not the way I would have liked it to be, but I'm glad you are with us now, Megatron."

Prime stiffened. "That's what all those mechs out there now will never understand," he said hotly. He grabbed Megatron's hand, tightened his grip on Elita's, and pulled both the black and the pink hands together in front of him. For a long moment he stared down at the different fingers laced through his scarred blue ones.

"It galls me," he said, "That our connection, which I cherish, is not only public knowledge but a subject of public mockery as well. They will never know what we have given for this." He turned to Elita, then to Megatron, and his face showed the depth of his feelings for both bots. "I _hate_ how they demean this family. I wanted to do something that would prove once and for all that this bond is more than a punchline for a thousand crude jokes."

"Be slagged to' em," Megatron suggested. "What do you care what they think?"

"I'm the Prime," sighed Optimus heavily. "I care. It's what I do."

He stretched out his stiffening legs, and let go his grip on his bondmates' hands. "I'd like you to come with me into the Matrix, so we can bring back the femme codes and silence all the naysayers for once. But it's up to you," he said. "I won't try to force you again."

Optimus grinned suddenly. "But whatever you decide, I will treasure the memory of that first terrified yelp when I asked you," he teased, thumping his helm against Megatron's dark one.

Elita leaned forward, intrigued. "He actually _yelped?_" she asked, optics twinkling in the old fiery glee.

"He sure did. Have a listen." Optimus replayed the audio file for her benefit.

"Hey!" Megatron threw a hand across Prime's mouth, trying to silence his speakers. But the red mech only increased the volume and put the clip on repeat. "Traitor," the Decepticon grumbled. For a Commander of armies, Optimus had the unsuitable habit of acting like a newling on occasion.

Elita laughed. "Wow," she said, "My response was _reserved_, by comparison!" But she gave the Decepticon a thin, warming smile. "I think I know how you felt, though."

For a long time, the three of them sat together in silence, letting their systems slow to more normal rates, putting off the final decision. Finally, Megatron sent a long, slow hiss from his vents, and threw a questioning glance at Elita.

She nodded.

They rose.

"Give us a few moments to confer, if you please, oh great Prime," said the Decepticon with mocking deference.

He held out a hand to Elita. "M'lady," he bowed. "Shall we?"

* * *

The room was small, but two bots moved a few steps away to a corner at Prime's back. The Autobot Commander sat still, never turning, and waited. But the tension in his very stillness was telling.

The mech and the femme could have opened a private channel to discuss their decision. But now that the time had come, it seemed that they had no need for words.

Megatron looked down at Elita, and lifted his shoulder in a questioning shrug.

But she refused to be drawn. She wanted to know where he stood before making her own intentions known. So she crossed her arms and cocked her head up at him, raising a stubborn brow.

A frown greeted her mute demand. Megatron had spent all his life in jealousy of Prime's access to the Matrix; but now that admittance to the sacred archive was being offered to him, he found himself loathe to go. He'd learned from Prime that it involved a much more complete surrender of self than he would ever be comfortable with.

And besides, he thought with a slight grimace, he was an _enemy_. Whoever and whatever the beings within the Matrix were, they would almost certainly hate him. As he stared into Elita's open face, he knew that she could see his reluctance.

Megatron frowned, crossed his own arms, and jutted his chin toward the slim pink femme. This time, he was demanding an answer.

Elita glanced back at Prime, and then out through the small, high window to the night-bound world. She carried less fear of entering the Matrix than Megatron did. After all, it was she who had helped the new Bearer along as he learned how to use the ancient artifact. From the first, she had always been his anchor. And Elita had pulled her mate back more than once, when he'd traveled in too deep and gotten lost.

No, what Elita feared was not what lay within the Matrix itself, but what lay within the soul of the tall gray mech who stood before her. He had changed; there was a quietude within him that had never been there before the Ceasefire. Before his bond with Prime. Before she'd been forced to become much closer to him than she ever would have chosen. But even so, she was certain that the fire in his heart would burn her. Megatron loved her; she wasn't foolish enough to ignore that fact. She knew he would do everything in his power to protect her. But he was still Megatron. And she was afraid of him.

But she agreed with Optimus that they had to find some means of rebirth for Cybertron. And there was an undeniable sense of rightness to the thought of herself, Megatron, and Prime all entering the Matrix together. Having the leaders of all three factions present before Primus would be a momentous occasion in its own right. But in Elita's experience, momentous occasions were never easily achieved.

She looked up to meet the Decepticon's fiery gaze, and her hand rose up before her in an involuntary gesture of defense. But she lifted her chin, and nodded firmly. Optimus wasn't the only one who understood that the sacrifice of one was sometimes necessary for the salvation of many. She would be willing to risk pain, if it meant a new chance for all of them.

Megatron saw her resolve. He held out his arms to comfort her, and she went into them, more to test her tolerance for such closeness than from any other motivation. But her forearms were crossed protectively over her chest, and her hands were clenched into fists at her neck.

Megatron bent his head over hers, and stroked her helm a bit awkwardly. In the end it was he who broke their mutual radio silence. _I would have done things differently, if I had known, _he said simply.

Elita looked up, her optics questioning.

_If I thought of you at all, I assumed you were some kind of quaint keepsake of Prime's: a mascot of sorts. I only knew what a spark-bond was in terms of the broadest general principles. I didn't understand,_ the big mech confessed.

_No,_ she agreed. _You didn't._

Megatron's voice hissed hesitantly across the airwaves._ I know I should have given him more time.__But I was afraid, little one. _For an instant, he hugged her fiercely._ My mind was tearing itself apart, and I- _He broke off, and straightened to his full height._ I hope you never know fear like that, _he finished darkly.

With determination, the Decepticon pulled away from the slim femme. His vents hissed sharply into the quiet room. _I realize now that you deserved a chance to say no,_ he said,_ No matter what it might have meant for me. Or for that matter, for Cybertron. _He grimaced. He was sounding an awful lot like Prime. But he held out a fist, then turned the hand and opened it palm-upward. _I'm sorry, my dear,_ he said, forcing himself to put the words to the gesture. He owed it to her.

Elita waited a long time before replying. When she did, it was with a silent sign of loyalty, touching two fingers to her own chestplate and then to his. She sighed, and squared her shoulders. _I wasn't able to accept or reject you then_._ But I can choose how I will respond to things as they are now. _She took his hand, and looked into his lowered optics._ Thank you for your friendship, Megatron, _she said. _I have never been foolish enough to undervalue the love of such a mech as you; especially since it it is so rarely given._

Megatron's engine missed a cycle. He thought of the time, several quartex ago, when Elita had given him the bond-sign, even though he would never be hers. It was a memory he still treasured.

_I would offer you all my soul gladly, _he blurted._ But you would be unwise take it. _He tried to keep some of the bitterness from his voice as he added,_ I'm not the mech I was when Prime found me on that hill. But I have too many memories that you should never have to see. _

Elita put a hand on the big mech's arm. _Friends, then?_ she suggested gently.

_Friends._

The big Decepticon touched his fingers to his own chestplate, and to the femme's in a formal salute.

_Why did you accept me,_ he asked, _ When you had every reason to hate me?_

Elita gave a lopsided smile, and looked away. _Because it was the right thing to do._

Then she sighed, and gave a little shiver. _And so is going into the Matrix with Orion. _Head high, the femme stepped deliberately into Megatron's embrace, and put her arms around him. She held onto him tightly, seeking past all the darkness that still shot through his essence for the steadying pulse of his affection for her._ I'm not sure why it's so important for us to be there, _she said. _But it's what we need to do. _

_I know. _He huffed._ I feel the same way, when I'm not running away from it like some scrap-licking coward. _The Decepticon curled his body protectively around the femme's small, light frame. When he spoke next, his rough voice was fraught with emotion. _I really will try to keep all my slag to myself,_ he said.

_I know,_ Elita replied. _I trust you, Megatron._

She took his hand, and the two bots walked back together to face Optimus.

* * *

"Swear to me that you'll do everything in your power to keep her safe," Megatron demanded without preamble.

Prime's relief was visible. "Are you joking?" he said. "I _plan _on it! I've loved her a lot longer than you have, you know." He stood, and reached out give the big mech's neck a rough squeeze. "But thank you for demanding my promise, just the same. And for the record, I plan on doing my best to protect my bond-brother's sorry aft as well."

He put his other arm around Elita, and held her close. "Thank you," he murmured. "I will not forget this."

Without further ado, but with a sense of great ceremony, the three bots knelt down around Prime's little table. He uncovered the Matrix. Then they linked hands, exchanged a last look before unlatching their chestplates; and Optimus opened his spark to receive them.

The Matrix glowed white as it swallowed the tripartite white orb.


	18. Act V scene vi

_**Scene vi**_

Three sparks floated in tight formation, the roiling red and agitated white clinging to the familiar blue globe as if their flickering light depended upon it.

From the Matrix's unquantifiable infraspace, Optimus drew a blueprint pattern of intersecting lines around himself. These were gradually filled in to reveal the familiar red, blue, and gray body that the Autobot was accustomed to wearing.

There were many false starts and reboots; but following his wordless instruction, the other two sparks beside him slowly followed suit.

Megatron and Elita looked down at their new-drafted bodies, and grimaced. They'd do.

A long narrow tunnel, or possibly a gigantic black hole, opened up before them. Elita and Megatron hung back at first, but at Prime's assurance that this was what passed for normal around here, they allowed themselves to fall with him into the darkness. Megatron felt to his horror that he must be shrinking down to the size of an atom in the rushing implosion that followed. But they burst out unscathed into an immense, swirling confusion of color and light.

Slowly, a familiar, bearded face assembled itself out of the chaos, and turned to greet them, smiling. Optimus gave the old mech a warm salute. "We're back," he said.

But Alpha Trion was visibly shocked to see Megatron. It was some time before he spoke.

"Things have indeed come full-circle, my son." The reedy voice seemed to echo from the surrounding space, rather than coming from Trion's floating projection. The effect was disconcerting to the two new initiates.

"I suppose they have," Prime agreed. "But I'm glad of it," he added with more force than he'd intended.

"I don't doubt you are, young one." Trion's mouth quirked with the ghost of a chuckle.

With solemnity, the elder mech turned his piercing gaze on Megatron. His voice was not hostile, but his words lacked the warmth he had shown to his protege. "I never thought I would see _you_ here."

"Then that makes us even." Megatron glared up at Trion's image with tempered defiance. "I never expected to be here. I only wanted the Matrix as a trophy. I was thinking I might mount it above my throne-"

"That is enough!" Trion's words thundered across the void with unexpected strength. "You do not understand, so this once I will forgive your discourtesy. But know this: There are still some things which ought to be spoken of with reverence!" The old mech strove to control his features. "...If you are capable of respecting anything but yourself, that is," he added in an angry undertone.

Optimus lifted his hands and appealed for calm. "It would be a shame if we abandoned our pursuit simply to indulge in fruitless recrimination," he reminded mentor and bondmates alike. "We're here to restore the femmes, remember?"

"Ah yes." Somewhat chastened, Trion bent down toward Elita. "There were always so few..." His expression softened as his large blue optics looked into Elita's own.

"It has been a long time, daughter."

The pink femme touched her brow in deference. "It has, Father. I've missed you."

"Tell me my dear- Are you as glad of this strange bond as Optimus declares himself to be?"

Elita answered honestly. "Not always happy." She shrugged. "But content."

Trion nodded gravely. "I will remember your sacrifice, my dear."

"We must be going," said Optimus gently.

"Yes, you must; for I cannot aid you in your quest." Alpha Trion nodded gravely to his apprentice. "A blessing be upon your journey, my son." The old mech glanced at Megatron, and seemed to catch himself. "A blessing upon you all," he amended.

"Thank you," Megatron replied. He touched his brow. "Father," he added in wry salute.

* * *

Alpha Trion's features began to fold in and transform; and once more it seemed they rushed forward, although there was still no visible movement.

_Do you still think this is going to be easier with Megatron along?_

Elita's rapid question flicked at him through their bond. It was wonderful to be able to communicate like this, here in the Matrix where all things were one. But such communion had its drawbacks. For of course, since Prime had heard her words, Megatron had felt them, too. Optimus sensed the big mech's withdrawal. But knew that his bond-brother had been wondering the same thing.

_Maybe not easier,_ he replied, sending the thought out to both of them. _Maybe I should have said 'possible.' All I know is, we all need to be here. There's more to this than simply reviving the femmes. I don't know what it is, but... I feel it. _

_I'm so glad we have your feelings to trust our lives to, Optimus, _said Megatron acidly._ I'm sure they're very dependable. But, heretic that I am, I sure as slag wish we had a map. _He lifted a fist and struck a heroic pose. "To Primus Himself, or the slagheap!"

The Decepticon's rough voice was unexpectedly loud. Echoing across the emptiness, it roused the projection, which now turned toward them, fully formatted. Sentinel Prime's abstracted optics focused in on the little trio of bots.

* * *

"Yes?" The orange ruler had the disgruntled look of a scholar pulled away from his research on the cusp of a breakthrough. "What is it?"

"We've returned for the-" Prime began. But he never got further than that. Because Sentinel recognized the Decepticon standing beside him, and lurched up and away from them, snarling.

"_You!_" Sentinel cried out in shock. Then he rounded on the Autobot Commander in outrage. "How dare you bring _him_ in here, Optimus? I always thought better of you!"

Optimus tried to reason. "I meant no disrespect, Sentinel-"

But Sentinel was no longer listening. Megatron had crushed his spark, and had laughed him to scorn as he died. All other considerations were forgotten.

Sharp sheets of black static cut across the old leader's furious countenance. With each harsh crackle of electricity, his projection would revert to a grainy vid-file of his death throes long ago: the optics flared, the mouth gaping in a silent scream. Past and present alternated so quickly that Sentinel seemed no longer certain where or _when_ he was.

"I'll _kill_ you!" The words screamed from the ragged edges of the old Prime's vocalizer, words he would never have spoken in such anger while alive.

Optimus pulled back in dismay, instinctively thrusting his companions behind him.

Sentinel gave a great cry of rage. "What? Now you would _protect_ that monster?" he roared. "Then you are a traitor, Orion."

Tearing strands of purple Matrix-wind rushed in to claw at the three embattled bots. Out of the howling darkness rose up a host of gigantic vid-screens, each showing the last image that Sentinel's shattered optics had ever beheld: Megatron's triumphant, leering visage as he bent for the kill.

The projected gray faces sneered down on them from every side, while a hissing analog audio track of the Decepticon's mirthless laughter played over and over again. Beneath that awful cackling, the three bondmates could hear the crunch of metal, and Sentinel's agonized screams. The sounds pressed in on them with an almost physical force. Horror at such a death settled into their souls, and their quivering sparks dimmed in fear.

Elita sought desperately to shield herself. But Sentinel's rage beat mercilessly against her. And not even Optimus could offer her any comfort; for his essence echoed with a similar memory, of Megatron's crushing hand at his own spark core. She glanced at the Decepticon on Prime's other side, and shied away from him. There was no refuge anywhere for her here.

Elita fought it as long as she could. Then she slumped against Prime with a little moan of pain.

At that tiny sound, nearly lost amid the howling of the razor-sharp winds, Megatron – the real Megatron – flared into a molten-hot rage. He welcomed that rage as his oldest and most trusted friend. Charging his fusion cannon to a subsonic roar, he thrust aside ten or so empty copies of himself, and surged toward Sentinel Prime.

"Don't you dare-!" Optimus flailed after him in a spasm of dawning apprehension.

But Megatron snarled, and tore his hand free from his bond-brother's hold. He had passed beyond reason too many times himself not to recognize the old bloodlust in others. _At least,_ he thought, in the eerie calm that often came to him in combat, _This proves me right. Prime's always been too much of an optimist. But you can't bring the enemy into the tribe's most sacred temple. Not if you want him to live through the tour. _

"Leave them be!" he bellowed up to the dead Prime's flickering face. "It's me you want!"

With an oath, Optimus sent a fist through the nearest laughing Megatron, toppling a whole row of projections like first-level practice dummies. Lifting the drooping Elita in his arms, he called up the memory of a rocket pack upgrade he'd tried out once, long ago. Building a solid version of that memory into himself, he shot off across the void after his bond-brother.

The two Autobots clanged into Megatron just as the gray mech unleashed the first blast from his fusion cannon. "What the slag do you think you're trying to do?" Prime shouted, watching the barrage pass harmlessly through Sentinel's thundering image.

The gray mech ignored him. He rocketed away from the two Autobots, cursing them for fools. "You want vengeance?" he screamed into the face of his enemy, "Fine. But if you snuff out these two in order to get to me, you'll be just as much a murderer as I am."

"What's happening?" groaned Elita. "Can't... see..."

"It's just Megs being dramatic again," Prime grunted, exasperated. "Just hold onto me, dear one – I've got you."

"Can't... shoot anything in here," Elita frowned.

"I know.

"They're behind us-"

"I know. Just hold on, sweetheart. I've got to stop him."

Megatron's cannon hummed, impatient to fire again. "You're just like all the others," the Decepticon was shouting up at Sentinel. "You preach oneness and goodwill right up until that doctrine gets in your way. Then you drop it like a lock-box of scraplets. And you wondered why I never listened to all of your claptrap!"

Optimus caught up to his bond-brother a second time, and grabbed onto his armor with a free hand. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "You're not going to accomplish anything like this! I'll try to find a way around him. Come on!"

"Traitor!" Sentinel's scream rang through the blackness, and he swung round on Prime. Slashing ribbons of wind whipped around the three bots, nearly tearing the weakened Elita from her bondmate's strong grasp.

"You selfish, lying piece of scrap!" Megatron shouted up at Sentinel, incensed. "These two are _Autobots_. They are _your people_. You should be _protecting_ them!"

Optimus drew up his energy axe, and laid about them with wicked strokes. It was his practiced force of will, not the blade, which sheered through the entangling strands. But the vision of the axe helped him focus his willpower to maximum effect. "Take Elita and get out of here!" he cried. "I'll catch up to you!" Knife-edged purple cords wound around the Decepticon's legs; but Prime sent his axe skimming through them and set him free.

"We won't know where to go without you, idiot," returned Megatron hotly. "This isn't exactly my home territory."

The Decepticon hovered in the empty air between his embattled family and his enraged foe. He watched in detachment as Prime whirled and sliced. Despite Optimus's prowess, the old gladiator knew it was only a matter of time before they were all overwhelmed. Sentinel had harnessed the power of the Matrix itself. Against that ancient might, the three bots were no more trouble than a few itching grains of sand.

Megatron hesitated for a moment longer. Then he made his decision. When Prime once again cut him free from the cords, he fired up his thrusters, and sped away.

"Where does he think he is going?" Elita asked angrily.

"He's going to try something stupid," Prime growled.

Megatron's harsh voice rang out in challenge. "Take me, you coward," he bellowed, hovering directly in front of the optics of the maddened old leader. "Have your slagging revenge. But by Primus and the Unmaker Himself, I will not let you destroy my family!"

Elita gasped; Prime cursed and redoubled his efforts to reach his bond-brother; but Sentinel's blind rage rolled on unabated.

"Frag it, you hulking scrap-pile, look at me!" With one hand Megatron tore away his own chestplate, exposing his beating red spark to the dagger-like winds that rushed in to claw at his essence. His life-spark throbbed wildly, unwilling to be extinguished. But Megatron had been practicing self-mastery lately, and it showed. "You can have you damn vengeance, but leave them alone." The Decepticon shut down his motor relays, and waited in blind immobility for extinction. It was easier than forcing himself to stay and watch his own death.

Sentinel narrowed his gaze. The memories flickering across his countenance went still. Then his mouth slowly split into a hungering grin that would have sent even Devastator scurrying.

"No!" shouted Optimus as the violent coils abruptly dropped him and Elita, and screamed up to roll greedily about his bond-brother's limp frame. "Don't do it, Sentinel!"

But beneath the big Autobot's desperate bellow, a thin cry pierced through the smoldering dark. Clutching a hand to her beleaguered spark, Elita let go of her bondmate, and rose to appeal for her enemy's life.

"Don't do it, Sentinel Prime," she echoed. "I beg you." Elita summoned her strength, and blazed fiercely up at the old mech. "You were a great leader, once. Now act like one!"

Optimus joined her, and together they plead for the motionless Decepticon. "Let him go, Sentinel," urged Prime, and his voice carried with it the weight of his office. "Believe me, I understand what I'm asking of you. But we need him. We need him to help hold this fragile peace together. You were always a seeker of peace. Do not destroy our one chance of obtaining it."

The orange mech's huge, empty optics flickered uncertainly; and there was a hiccup in the storm about him."Two Autobots would defend the Decepticon Commander?" he asked. "Does faction – _history_ - mean nothing any more?" Sentinel sounded bewildered. "But-" with an effort, he turned to the femme. "Elita, you have great, personal reason to hate Megatron. Should you not also cry out with me for his extinction?"

"But I also love him, Sentinel," she answered. "Bond or not bond, Megatron is my brother too."

Sentinel's huge brows drew together in confusion. He turned ponderously to face Optimus. "Orion. You cannot have forgotten what he has done. What he did to me. What he did to you. You have always fought to uphold justice. Surely, justice must now demand his death?"

Optimus sighed, shoulders slumping. "Certainly he is worthy of death, my old friend. But I'm not certain whether, after eons of warfare, there remain any of us who do not deserve death. What matters now is life. I believe we've had enough of killing." He lifted his optics to blaze piercingly into his predecessor's own. "Don't you think so too, my old friend?"

The wild winds fluttered and stumbled in sudden confusion. The thousand projected faces of Megatron the Destroyer slunk back into the red mist. The screaming violence faded slowly into silence. All that remained was the disembodied head of a single, shrunken mech; a mech who had been given an assignment which had grown too heavy for him in the end.

Silence strained across the void like a taut guy-wire waiting to snap under too great a load. Neither Sentinel nor the watching Autobots moved a nanometer.

Growing curious as to why oblivion was so long in coming, Megatron lit one careful optic.

A red thread snaked out and snatched the Decepticon by one ankle, jerking him sharply up into the air. The gray Commander gave a high, un-warriorlike yelp of surprise. His servos wailed as he rebooted his relays at triple speed.

Sentinel gave a mirthless laugh.

The Decepticon Commander scowled and spit; but he said no word as he was left to dangle upside-down above his fellow bots. He hung as helpless as a fragile toy in the hands of a gigantic, petulant child.

Sentinel drew his murderer close, giving his enemy that predatory grin. He swung the gray mech around in a few purge-inducing loops; then threw him unceremoniously out into the darkness.

Megatron expelled a mouthful of foamy fluid. He muttered a few vivid curses. Then he turned, and made his way back to his family. He stood beside the two Autobots, scowling up at Sentinel. But he refused to give the old Commander the satisfaction of hearing him speak a single word of protest.

The orange mech huffed. "That'll do," he declared. His voice was still hard, but it was no longer fevered by hatred. "I may never forgive you," he added. "But I will comfort myself with the memory of that last squawk you gave. I'll lay the image of your affronted face over the memories that I carry from my last moments online," he finished with no little measure of acerbity.

"Thank you, Sentinel," said Optimus, and bowed in respect.

The old scholar nodded. "Carry on," he said bluntly. Then he folded away into silence.

* * *

Optimus turned to Elita, and inquired with a glance if she was all right. She nodded. Prime touched his brow to hers in silent gratitude, too relieved to say anything more.

Then he walked over to Megatron. "You're a mess," he said bluntly.

"Yeah. It runs in the family," Megatron's armor was not so much damaged as torn away. Dark lubricants dripped along its ragged edges, and a few loose wire-ends sparked feebly. His red optics sputtered as he tried to focus on Prime through cracked lenses. Then his voice rose in umbrage. "But you two look like you just stepped off the assembly line! That wind-stuff was chewing us _all_ into scrap. How the slag did you manage-?"

"Relax. It's the Matrix. Everything here..." Optimus flapped a hand vaguely as he sought for the word, then gave up. "It's magic, OK?"

Megatron snorted. "Right."

Optimus shouldered his way beneath Megatron's arm, and drew him up to his feet. "That's a start," he began. "now think of the way you look in Starscream's full-length mirror," he advised. "It'll make this simpler."

As Megatron grumbled, Optimus began jimmying with the Decepticon's shattered torso. "Now don't blow a gasket if I get any of this wrong," said the red mech. "After all, your real body is waiting for you back in the world, unbroken, same as always. So far as we know," he added quietly to himself.

The Autobot ran his hands along the broken, twisted seams, and Megatron watched in amazement as the mangled metal drew itself together under Prime's fingers. He frowned. It _was_ like magic.

"How are you doing that?" he asked, forgetting even to swear.

"Practice," Prime replied grimly. "This isn't my first trip in here, you know."

Megatron craned his neck to see. "You're not altering anything, are you?" he asked nervously.

"I could make you pink," muttered Prime, with his mind on his work.

This time, Megatron remembered to swear. "The Unmaker's Eye, you will! I'll slag your aft from here to the Smelter if you even try it!"

Optimus surveyed his handiwork, nodded, and gave the Decepticon a hearty smack. Then he put on his sternest expression. "Just remember that I'll follow through on that threat, if you ever try anything like this again," he declared.

Then he pulled the Decepticon into a rough hug. "You big glitching junk-pile!" the Prime grumbled affectionately. "_I'm_ supposed to be the self-sacrificing one, remember? I'm better at it, I've got evorns of practice, and I like the attention!" He set his hands firmly on the other mech's shoulders, and stared him down, only halfway in jest. "I will not permit you to usurp that role, do you hear me?"

Megatron snorted. "You just watch yourself, Prime. Soon all the Autobots will be looking to _me_ to provide them with their daily dose of pathos. And what will you do with yourself then?"

Optimus gave a full-throated laugh at that. "I'm sure I'd think of something."

"Like figuring out how we're going to face Nova?" Elita cut in with a sobering kilobyte of reality.

Optimus huffed loudly, and muttered a curse.

"Frag Nova," Megatron suggested with brittle brightness. "Can't we just... go around? Skip to the next set-point, or something?"

"It doesn't seem to work like that." Optimus looked from one bot to the other, and clenched his fists uneasily. "I don't want to deal with his slag either. But more than that, I don't want him getting access to either of you. We saw what happened with Sentinel. And he was always my ally. Nova, on the other hand..." Unconsciously, he reached out for Elita's hand.

"Too bad I used up all my Invisibility Spray," Megatron quipped.

Optimus rubbed his thumb back and forth across Elita's thin fingers in his, deep in thought.

"This is the Matrix, 'Rion," she murmured. "Everything is mutable. There must be some way..."

Prime's blue optics brightened. "There is." He looked up into his fellow-bots' watching faces. "There is, if you'll trust me."


	19. Act V scene vii

_**Scene vii**_

Optimus stepped out into Nova's arena, chin up in quiet defiance. He seemed to be alone.

But underneath his tightly-folded arms, hidden behind the red chestplates which he had fashioned out of emptiness, two free sparks rode in what they all hoped would be safety. Before venturing into Nova's realm, Elita and Megatron had shucked off their self-constructed bodies, and come as unsupported sparks to huddle beside Prime's blue soul. They hid in Optimus's outer form, and hoped that Nova would be fooled by appearances.

The great mech's huge black head came up, and Optimus braced himself for violence. But none came. Tall as a star, Nova Prime simply stared down at the Autobot Commander with imperious contempt.

The other inhabitants of the Matrix tended to materialize simply, in portrait projections similar to those created by the holoform communicators that were used so frequently on Cybertron. But for Nova, this had never been enough. Although in life he'd been only a little taller than Optimus, he now made sure that the red Autobot felt tiny in his presence.

"You're back," he grumbled, sounding bored. Then his glance sharpened. "And you're different. That unholy alliance has changed you." He stooped, and peered into the red Prime's steady optics. "Your essence is... complicated."

Prime kept his features carefully blank. "You know what I've come here for, Nova," he said evenly. "And you can't give it to me. If you still think of yourself as a leader of Cybertron, you'll send me on now to those who might help." He moved forward, his optics set straight ahead. He hoped only to pass by the gigantic projection before Nova decided to toy with him.

He almost made it. Optimus had passed beneath his predecessor's dissecting gaze, and was traveling alongside the black and white mech's towering leg, when Nova suddenly shifted and spread his wings wide enough to block out the sky. "You're not going anywhere," he drawled lazily. "Not yet."

Like the long arc of a comet, Nova's arm reached down, down, and caught Optimus between two hulking fingers. There was a heady rush as the red Autobot was lifted up to meet the stare of Nova Prime's enormous dark optics.

"What did you do?" Nova demanded, turning his tiny successor to peer at him from all angles. "Your energy field is stronger than any I have ever seen."

Optimus shrugged. "Everything's mutable, here in the Matrix," he said, hoping his voice would not betray his unease.

But Nova wasn't listening. He'd never been a mech to fall back when a discovery beckoned. "I don't see why you'd take the trouble of coming into the Matrix when you've got plenty of feminine coding right- _Ah_."

Glittering darkly, Nova reached in through the constructed similitude of Prime's boxy red back, and drew from it a quivering white spark.

"Hello, Elita," he preened. "How nice of you to drop in to see me, my dear."

* * *

Elita's soul shuddered at his touch. Hastily, she reassembled a body to protect herself. The sound of her bondmate's angry bellowing was oddly comforting. There was nothing that Optimus could do to save her, clutched as he was in Nova's other hand. But it was good to know she was not alone.

The Autobot femme lit her optics, and looked up into the face of her captor.

"If you insist on holding me so tightly, Nova," she said frostily, "I would ask you to do me the courtesy of removing your fingers from my spark. Take hold of this body instead. I swear to you by the One Source that I will not try to wriggle free."

"Where would you go, little one?" inquired Nova haughtily. But he did as she asked, with a mock-gallant bow.

Elita broke into a shuddering peal of slightly-hysterical laughter. "Remind me never again to complain about Megatron's dark energy, Optimus." she called. "It's sweet high-grade when compared to this."

"Show respect to your betters, little femme," Nova barked.

"Oh, I wasn't disputing your power," said Elita, and hoped he'd ignore the sarcasm in her tone.

Elita slowed the juddering of her intakes, and clambered shakily onto Nova's huge, black palm, where she began readying herself for combat.

_Get us out of here,_ she hissed to Optimus through the bond their two souls shared. _I don't care how you do it, but get us out. I'll keep him distracted while you two find the way._

_Turn me loose!_ raged the still-unshelled Megatron within him. _I'll show him some 'distraction'!_

Prime shook with outrage as he watched his dark predecessor leering at his bondmate. He would have leaped at the chance to help Megatron blow Nova's oversized head off. But he knew it was foolish even to try.

_He'd destroy you before you made it through the first sentence of your patented monologue_,he told his bond-brother._ We won't help Elita by getting ourselves fragged._

Optimus reached out to his soul-mate, enfolding her clear white spark in a fierce, fiery love. _You take care of yourself, do you hear me?_ he called.

He smiled grimly as he felt Megatron's echoing transmission channel out to her through him: _And if you get the chance, sweetheart, you slag that overgrown pile of self-important scrap till he can't tell his tailpipe from his finial!_

Elita's spark warmed. _I've got this,_ she told her little family._ Just do your thing, Optimus. You're good at saving people. _Her love flowed back to him as a charge of raw power. The red mech set his jaw, and readied himself to try something crazy.

* * *

But Optimus was trammeled before he could put thought to action.

Watching Elita, Nova sensed there was more going on beneath the pink femme's smooth faceplate than his laser-precision gaze could detect. Without taking his optics off of his prize, Nova tossed Optimus out into the ether. Then with a single, swift finger, he drew a floating pink bubble around the red mech. With a brief sneer he flicked it behind him, forgotten.

"There now," he preened. "That should make things simpler."

Optimus beat his fists against the sides of the bubble. But the delicate prison was as impervious as hate.

_Brother,_ he called down the bond. He was grateful for the ease with which soul-communion could be achieved in the unbounded Matrix. Here, for the first time in his life, he could talk without speaking aloud. _Remember that __little __tête-à-tête__ you__ had with Primus?_

The red spark beside his pulsed a hot, proud affirmative.

_Care to try for a repeat performance?_

_Is it going to save Elita?_

_It had better._

_Then I'm in._

Optimus deliberately lowered his fists. _Well then Megs old man... I'm going to need you to pray..._

* * *

Elita risked a glance over Nova's great shoulder, into the translucent globe which held the two mechs. Through the colored, swirling wall, she could read the taut lines of her bondmate's strained face, could almost decipher the words that moved his lips in silent pleading. Through the tiny seams in his trembling armor a bright light glowed, gaining in brilliance until his form was almost completely obscured. Then the light burst forth from him in a blinding flash that passed through the walls of the strange round prison. Startled, Elita fell back a step, squinting.

"What is it?" asked Nova, staring down at her sharply. There was a suspicious look in his dark optics.

Elita lifted her chin, and answered with defiance. "You snatched my spark out of my bondmate's body with your hulking, clumsy fingers; and you're wondering why I'm still wincing?" she shot. "What is it you want from me?"

"I only want to study you, my dear," Nova replied smoothly. "I want to find out what it is about your species that has the mechs pursuing your restoration with such blind determination." He ran a finger down her cheek. "Frankly my sweet," he murmured, "I've begun to wonder if I haven't missed out on something all these vorns..."

Elita hunched away from his touch. Being with Nova was like having her system flooded with unfiltered sewer-fluid. All she wanted was to get away from him and get clean. But unless Optimus found a way, there was no hope of escape. So no matter how desperately she wanted to know what was happening behind Nova's back, she would not look again. It was too risky.

* * *

Prime had never been sure exactly what the Matrix was supposed to be. It was a strange kind of Archive; that much he understood well enough. But it was also rumored to contain some portion or power of their god.

But the only power Prime had ever felt here was a vague something which broke down the barriers that separated souls. In the Matrix a spark had to fight to keep its own essence distinct from the uncatalogued flow around it. This disorder had always set Primes sensibilities on edge. But what if he could now turn that very same openness to his advantage?

_I'll need you to pray,_ he'd said to Megatron. United as one, the Autobot and the Decepticon flung themselves into that wild flow. Anchored only to one another, they surrendered their cry to the Matrix – and hoped it would somehow find its way to their Creator.

* * *

"This will be a very gentle hack, my dear," purred Nova with what he seemed to think was a reassuring calm. "It shouldn't hurt a bit." He spoke in his usual cultured tones, but there was an edge to his voice now; a whine of desire.

The star-tall mech unspooled a thin wire from his wrist, and reached to plug it into the tiny medical access port at the back of Elita's neck. She jerked away from him, but he shook a finger at her. "Ah-ah-ah," he chided. "Remember your promise." Elita clenched her fists, froze, and diverted all of her auxiliary power to strengthening her firewalls.

She resisted Nova's probing inquiries with everything she had, writing false leads and counter-programs on the fly, hoping to divert his searching onto dead-end paths. She did not dare let him learn anything about what she guessed Optimus was attempting to do. But he was a merciless opponent, and Elita did not fool herself into believing that this game of mental chess would end in any way but loss.

_Just a little longer, _she told herself._ Please, Optimus; just a little longer..._

* * *

_Primus!_ _Save us!_

The two conjoined mechs called out to their Creator, their voices united in a single cry. But the silent, vast Matrix simply swallowed up the words.

* * *

Nova's hack burned like molten quicksilver along Elita's lines, and she shuddered in revulsion. For even as the hack hunted down all her most secret thoughts, it also held a mirror to the fallen Prime's own twisted heart. His jealousy, contempt, and secret shame raged through her as he hunted for the secret she was keeping. For Prime's success, so debased in Nova's mind, had nevertheless made all the dark mech's own attempts at union through the force of might seem small and mean by comparison.

The desire was strong in him to hurt Optimus. She guessed he did not want her for himself, but rather sought revenge himself against the Autobot Commander who'd shown him up as a failure. He closed in on the pink femme's last encrypted firewall.

_The time has come to surrender, Daughter._ The voice did not belong to Nova, nor to any mech she knew. But Elita recognized it just the same.

She resisted the words at first, for they went against everything she stood for. But Elita had felt this Presence a few times before: a quiet guide who seemed to know more than she did herself, and never lead her wrong. She recognized the voice of her Creator. So Elita clenched her fists, and nodded in silent acquiescence.

Ramrod-straight, the femme Commander stared up into the immensity that Nova had built to house himself. She met those empty optics, and did not quail. "You say you want to learn of me?" she cried. "Then take it, Nova. Take it all!"And Elita threw herself into the abyss of a Prime gone dark.

Her shattering surge of self went screaming up the hack-line: all the love, pain, triumph, and despair of a lifetime that had lasted more than a hundred thousand vorns. And the Power that had given her that life wound itself about her brief transmission, strengthening and focusing it until all those terabytes of information blazed past Nova's own firewall, and seared deep into his cortex.

It wasn't exactly stopping time. But it certainly stopped Nova.

He screamed, and pressed gigantic hands to his burning head. Smoke boiled from his open mouth.

Elita dangled from the hack-line, dropped and forgotten by her captor. Then the thin cord tore loose from its socket; and the tiny femme fell down into unformatted blackness.

With his thought no longer sustaining it, Nova's bubble-prison also broke apart. Prime's red shell tumbled after her, bearing Megatron's soul along with him.

* * *

The first thing he felt, when Prime came to himself, were two familiar hands in his. Elita yelped as he nearly crushed her fingers in a reflexive grip. "You're here!" he gasped. "Thank Primus!"

"Thank him yourself," she hissed. Her voice was strangely tight.

Prime onlined his optical array, and was immediately blinded.

More than an enormous globe of light, the Presence before him was perhaps better described as a gigantic engine of life itself. Optimus felt insubstantial; the brilliance surrounding them shone through him with such power that he could feel its energy agitating his electrons. And yet his metal body sang with life; more real than he had ever felt it. His spark and those of his bondmates pulsed in joyful counterpoint with the deep, harmonic rhythm coming from the living orb before them.

"Primus!" he exclaimed. It was an automatic blasphemy; an exclamation rather than a greeting. He knew he ought to begin again, say something more appropriate, offer thanks, request the gift they had come here seeking. But his vocalizer seemed to have jammed in his throat.

_I am proud of you, my children, _said a kind, familiar Voice._ So very, very proud._

Like a therapeutic oil bath after a long-fought battle, like Elita's ever-ready embrace, like a smooth, empty road beneath his wheels, the Voice from the light upheld him. For a single, blissful moment, Optimus allowed himself to be content.

But not so Megatron. The gray mech had sworn at his Creator before this, and he was not about to stop now. "Proud." he repeated. "Really. But if you're so slagging pleased, then why the Pit did we have to go through so much scrap to get here?"

_My creations do not always follow my _will, replied the Voice. _You are no stranger to rebellion yourself, my son._

Megatron was undeterred. "If any of my soldiers disobeyed me as shamelessly as yours do, I'd have destroyed them without a second thought!" he shouted. "What kind of god are you, if you cannot even control your own creations?"

_I am the kind of god who grants them choice, oh mighty Megatron, Co-Commander of all Cybertron and bond-brother of my Prime._

Optimus didn't quite manage to stifle a laugh at this rebuke. He put a quieting hand on the gray mech's arm. "Remember what we came here for, my friend," he whispered. "We have arrived at the seat of the one Being who can give us what we seek. What's past is not important now."

Butthe Voice spoke out before any of the three bots could formally make their planned request._ I know of your desires, _it said._ You believe more femmes will bring the balance you are missing. But my children, in this you are mistaken._

"How can you say that we are a mistake?" burst Elita burst. "You made us, you gave us a part in the great machine that only we can fill. You _need_ us! The few femmes who remain are broken by the War. Yet you would leave us few to shoulder the burden of all? That's not fair, and you know it. Why do you refuse to help us?" This was not what she expected from a Creator in whom she had always placed her trust. Elita felt betrayed.

_I am sorry, my daughter. I did not intend to place this burden upon you. You suffer for my fault now, I fear, for I was over-hasty in the beginning of my creation. I loved the femmes. But they do have more of chaos in their essence than the mechs. I fear that chaos. It brings more danger than you know._

"But there can be no creation at all without some element of chaos," Prime put in. "You should know that better than anyone."

"And why do you fear us more than you fear the mechs?" Elita demanded. "What is it you think we would do that is awful enough to deny us existence?"

_I cannot tell. The femmes are unpredictable. The mechs, with their ordered processors, never surprise me. _There was a thoughtful pause. _Almost never,_ it amended.

"You preferred the war, didn't you?" Megatron accused in dawning comprehension. "You actually liked keeping us in our eternal stalemate. We were slowly killing each other, but at least we were 'predictable'!" he spat.

_I did not prefer destruction, my son. _The Voice was almost angry. _You have misunderstood me. I was keeping you alive._

"Like slag, you were." Megatron tightly crossed his arms, because there was nothing he could punch.

_It is true that there can be no creation without chaos. But there is no chaos without death. When I took this form and peopled it with you, I realized that I would not be able to create many more of you without drawing the Destroyer's attention. He hated life, and would not allow me to create more of it without a fight. Always, he felt after my essence, seeking to consume me and take my power back into himself. So I compromised. I chose order. And I rarely ever sparked new life._

_But did you not notice, my children, how difficult it was to destroy you?__You could be broken, deactivated, even reprogrammed; but you were hardly ever killed. It was a balance. I kept my brother from finding and destroying me and all of my creations._ The Voice grew stern._I kept him from destroying you._

Optimus listened to all of this in silence. During his long tenure as Prime, he had grown to trust his Creator. For one hundred thousand vorns, he had borne the Sign of Leadership, and been his Maker's spokesmech. But the time had come now, he decided, to disagree.

"It is true, as you say, that we were hardly ever killed. But my Lord, we hardly lived. Like drones, we have repeated the ceaseless cycles of destruction more times than I can count." Optimus wondered if his bluntness would be chastised; but the Presence before him remained silent.

"You know yourself that something must be changed. I've felt your fear for us, your fear that in your attempts to keep us from destruction you had only slowed and codified our doom. For we are doomed, Primus, just as surely as if you had summoned the Destroyer here yourself. It may not be today. But it will come. If we stay on this present course, the only end is oblivion."

_But what else can I do? You are my children. It is my duty to keep you safe. _Long tendrils of light encircled the three bots, wrapping them in an aching love that was as tangible as sunlight.

Elita pushed back her all her disappointment and anger, and focused instead on the powerful energy which pulsed through her being. She sought to understand the childlike god whose fear of uncertainty had caused them so much anguish. She listened, she watched, she examined his essence... And suddenly she knew.

"You're not just running from from a brother," she burst out. "You are running from yourself!"

All the old stories now clanged into place. "The myth of the One Source is true! You're the Lord of the Light!" she exclaimed. "You wanted to stop death... so you cut your soul in half..."

Elita's awed words were heavy with sorrow. Unconsciously she reached out a hand, as if to comfort her own Creator. "No wonder you could not give us the freedom of a whole life, my Lord. You are a broken being yourself. But Primus, as we all can see, your severance has not been a solution."

For the first time, the golden light began to flicker.

_But if I let him find me, _the Voice whispered,_ he will kill us all._

"Death might not be such a bad thing, my Lord," Optimus said heavily. "If there is one thing I envy the organic species, it is their continual renewal. I believe that constant death and birth is what saves them, in the end. Each generation learns; each brings about new change, even if that change is only the making of fresh mistakes. We are transformers in name, beings who are defined by our ability to adapt, to alter our appearance. But I'm afraid that our appearance is the only thing we've changed in all these long evorns. Our cores have long been locked in stasis."

Prime gazed soberly across at his Decepticon bond-brother. A hundred thoughts were coming together in his processor, and he wasn't sure that anyone would like the resulting conclusion. "For our sake, my Lord, you have fought against your brother all these eons. But perhaps now – for your own sake as well as for ours – the time has come for you to re-embrace him."

Megatron stood back in incredulity. "Wait a slagging minute, Prime," he spluttered. "This isn't like our hearts-and-flowers bond. If you're really saying what I think you're saying, you are asking our Creator – who is, I might remind you, also the very world on which we live – to surrender himself to the Destroyer so that we can... _What_ exactly?"

"So we can have our freedom," Prime replied. "So we too might be whole. Do you see any other way?" he asked. "The Destroyer is already among us, even here. His influence has always been within our sparks, despite our Maker's efforts to keep us safe. We've seen already that no Ceasefire can bring about the kind of change we need. Our society is as fractured as the One chose to become so long ago."

"But this isn't just some metaphysical mumbo-jumbo we're talking about here," persisted Megatron, his voice rising. "A welcome to the Destroyer is a welcome to death itself. It would mean the end of Primus's protection of our lives. And may I remind you that we are talking about friends of yours, here. Think of Ironhide. He is old, and will fall soonest. Think of Jazz. Think of Prowl. Even that obnoxious slagger Sideswipe. I know how much you care about all of them," he insisted. "But if Primus gives you what you ask for, then some day each one of them will die. You will die. Elita will die. I will die. And I don't _want_ to die, Optimus."

"I know," said Prime. "I know it, Megatron." With his free hand, he pulled the big mech close, until their helms were touching. "But we are Commanders, Brother. Sometimes, it is our duty to make the hard choices."

"And by the way," he added, "It isn't just my own mechs I'm considering. I'm thinking of your soldiers well – Decepticons I've come to know and respect both on and off the battlefield. I'm thinking of Skywarp's brashness and Astrotrain's grumbling and even Reflector's... ambiguity. I care for each and every one of them, as you well know."

Megatron snorted. "Like slag you do. If you cared you wouldn't be trying to get them all killed. Ask Elita," he demanded. "She'll back me up!"

But Elita had come to her own conclusion, and it was not one Megatron would like. She reached out past her bondmate, and took hold of Megatron's black hand. "It will be all right," she murmured.

The gray mech blenched. "You too?" he cried.

She held his gaze. "Would you willingly go back to things the way they were before your spark-union with Optimus?"

"Frag, no."

"But it hasn't been easy for you," she persisted. "Has what you have today been worth the sacrifice you made?"

"I used to think it was," the big mech muttered.

Elita smiled a little, understanding. "It is better to be whole, than to be broken," she said simply. "Even if it comes at a great cost."

"Hey! Weren't you the one complaining about us treating you like Prime's third drone?" the Decepticon demanded. "You don't have to go along with everything he says, you know."

Elita gave him a long, quiet look. "I've been his bondmate for most of my life," she declared. "And yes, sometimes we do rub off on each other. But this is what _I_ think, Megatron. Sometimes, truth is truth."

Megatron gave each of the two Autobots a long, dark look. He held so still it was unnerving. Then he snorted. "I've never wanted to be anyone's pawn," he said. "Not even my Creator's. I've done my bit. Now it's slagging-well his turn. I'll go along with any scheme that gives me freedom to run rampant, I suppose... Even if it's only for a little while."

Prime and Elita hugged their grumbling Decepticon brother.

Then Optimus turned to the Presence before him, and asked simply, "What of you, my Lord?"

The great globe of golden light was silent for a klik. _I have often wondered what a return would bring,_ the Voice admitted doubtfully. _But I am afraid, _it whispered.

"I know your fear," said Prime, his words heavy with memory. He glanced sidelong at his old enemy: the mech who'd hurt him more than any other had, the mech who now was Brother and cherished friend. It had been terrifying to give his soul to that implacable bot. But it was worth it ten times over. He wished that he could give some hope now to his cowering Creator. But it was Megatron who spoke first.

"I believe in you," the big mech said. "I always have."

Megatron knew that Primus would recognize the words, words the Creator had spoken to Megatron himself, back at the C-12 mining site a short half-vorn ago.

There was a flicker in the golden light. _I know you do, my son._

_Go back. _The Voice commanded._ I will give spark to your femmes. As for your other counsel... That I must consider._

There came a sudden lurch, and then a violent sense of falling. The walls of the Creator's self-made fortress slammed down tight before them; and the three bots were shut out.


	20. Act V scene viii

_**Scene viii**_

Wobbling dizzily in cumbersome metal bodies they'd almost forgotten how to operate, the three bots fought to calibrate their sensors. They'd found themselves with no transition back in Prime's familiar quarters. And if their chronometers could be believed, less than a single breem had passed since they had entered the Matrix of Leadership. It felt more like an eon.

Optimus fell forward onto his hands. Tugging Elita with him, he crawled over to his recharge berth and collapsed upon it, clutching his bondmate tightly to his chest. Then he shut down his optics, utterly spent.

"Take care of them, my Brother," he begged the gray Decepticon. "Be watchful. I can't-" Then with a sigh Prime's face went slack, and his vocalizer clicked into silence.

Megatron clambered laboriously to his feet, and stood there, swaying. He watched as Elita sought with fumbling fingers to connect her bondmate to the chargers. She'd been here many times before, he knew. Prime relied on her to save him, when he fell helpless from the Matrix. She was his touchstone and his helpmeet. But never before had the effects of Matrix-travel been upon her as well.

The Decepticon's expression was inscrutable as he stared down at the two sprawled Autobots. Saying nothing, he unspooled a secondary charge cord, and plugged the pink femme into the generator as well. She didn't even try to refuse. It was a little unnerving.

"You two take care of each other," he admonished, his voice pinched. "Rest. Because I'm going to want about three orns of recharge when you come back online. And yes, Optimus," he added, "I'll do my best to make sure Cybertron is still here when you reboot."

It was no idle promise. But Optimus was not online to hear it.

"So this is where I take over the world," he groaned. He looked down into Elita's dimly-lit blue optics, hoping she could give him a jolt of strength somehow.

Elita lifted a weary shoulder. "Guess so," she replied. "Have fun." All she wanted to do was lie here against the solid, familiar body of her bondmate, and fade into the welcome silence of shut-down. But there was something else she had to tell him now, before he left. "Megatron?" she called.

Her voice was thin; so he bent close, and braced himself against the berth to keep from falling over.

Her slender fingers ghosted across the purple sigil embedded in his chestplate. "Thank you," she whispered simply.

His intakes hitched. But he said nothing. He'd kept his part of the bargain – closed off the darker portions of his spark to her, kept a space between them even as they'd whirled together in the blue vastness that was Prime.

"Someday," she whispered, "There will be someone-"

"We'll see," he muttered dourly.

He straightened up, leaving the spent bots together. He knew despite his muzzy CPU that these two did not often let themselves be seen like this, so vulnerable and small. He knew their trust should mean something. But he was too tired to ferret it out.

He trudged over to the exit, and leaned against the door-frame while he keyed open the door. "You did well in there, sweetheart," he said, without looking over his shoulder at the little femme behind him.

"So did you," she whispered.

He nodded, shambled out, and shut the door behind him with a long and weary sigh.

For once in his life, the Decepticon Commander was loathe to rule the planet. He was too worn-out to properly enjoy it. But he was learning a lot about duty from his family. The first thing he did as High Protector did was send a pulsewave out to Shockwave and to Red Alert, telling them to watch the sky.

* * *

Megatron could no more keep from making his way down to the chamber of Vector Sigma than he could have stopped the pulsing of his spark. He had to know, because he wasn't certain he believed that it had all been real. He didn't know what he'd do with himself, if it wasn't.

So he stumbled down abandoned passageways, and into the heart of Cybertron. So far, despite the recent upheavals, the tunnels seemed remarkably clear of debris. He noted the fact with some gratitude, since he wasn't sure he could summon enough charge to his fusion cannon to blow away a clump of steel wool, let alone a tangle of titanium beams.

But as he approached the ancient Forge, his optics narrowed. From its doorway, there came a flicker of orange firelight; and a cautious voice was murmuring within. Someone was here before him. He straightened with an effort, and swung into the doorway.

"What have we got here?" he boomed, glad that the acoustics in the vaulted room would magnify his weary words.

Two bots whirled in sudden terror, stumbling over one another in an attempt to block his view of what lay behind them.

Megatron laughed. He couldn't help it. He leaned against the door-frame and chortled. "Is she finished?" he asked, jerking his chin at the thing on the table.

"Yes, she's finished," Sunstreaker snarled, "Just in time for you to make us dump her in the scrapheap." The yellow warrior balled his fists, bursting to fight.

Megatron shook his head. "Not this time," he told the surly Autobot. In spite of himself, he smiled. "Come with me, Thundercracker. And you too, Sun...taker? Whatever your name is. And bring along that shiny new femme you've made. We may as well find out together."

When last Megatron had seen it, the heart of their world had been dark. Silenced in a relatively minor skirmish of the Great War, Vector Sigma lay where it had fallen on the floor of the rounded chamber. On that grim day, bots to whom it had given life bore witness to its death.

Now, open-mouthed, the three mechs gaped up at the faceted sphere. The huge globe hovered in the center of the room; golden and glowing and humming with life. A newly-minted Key lay waiting for them beside the activation panel.

The original Key had been a flat, copper-colored device with some simple symbols engraven on its surface. Long ago, he and Optimus Prime had fought each other for the right to use the ancient heirloom to place sparks into new-built mechs. But that Key had been lost to them for many vorns.

This new Key, however, was entirely different. It was rounded, with a core of silver steel, and made of a translucent crystal that seemed almost to glow with its own light. There was not a single glyph, pattern, or symbol to be seen upon its scintillating surface. Megatron lifted it gingerly, and threw a quick look at the flabbergasted mechs behind him.

Slowly, and with a feeling of great ceremony, Megatron placed the crystal Key into its port and turned it. A sound that was almost beneath hearing shook the floor on which they stood, and the light of the shining sphere grew to an almost unbearable brilliance. The three mechs polarized their optics, unwilling to look away.

Megatron shoved the guilty parties forward. "It's time," he told them. "Go do your thing."

* * *

"Did I do the right thing?"

"_We."_

"Did _we_ do the right thing?" Prime willingly acknowledged Elita's part in the decision, but he wasn't about to be diverted. "I don't want us all to die any more than Megatron does. I just hide it better."

"Hmm." Elita smiled to herself as she traced a finger over the still-surprising planes of her bondmate's exposed face. After some thought, she replied, "Things aren't always so simple as 0 and 1, yes and no, right and wrong, Orion."

"What happened in there?" persisted Prime. "How could I have said all those things? There were moments when I didn't even feel the words were mine!"

"You speak for Primus, yes?" Elita probed.

"On occasion..." he replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"Then perhaps," Elita continued, shushing him, "There are some times when we – all of us who have ever lived – can speak to _him_ through _you_." She sighed, and curled closer to the red mech. "At least, that's what I'd like to think."

"I'm afraid," he said simply.

"I know, dear one. I am too."

"_Primus_ was afraid."

"I know. I felt it."

"Will he turn away from us when the time comes?" Prime wondered. "I only hope we haven't asked more of our Creator than he can give. I hope-" He sighed. "I hope that we can trust him."

"So do I," Elita replied.

The two Autobots rose, and left the dark safety of their private room. Optimus bent, and touched his helm to the femme's, clutching her hands to his chest. They shared one last embrace; then turned in opposite directions, and strode out to meet the world they hoped they had not just condemned.

* * *

Sunstreaker would never be entirely certain how he'd ended up standing next to his old jet-judo partner, begging Vector Sigma to give life to the femme form they'd created together. But he knew it probably had something to do with all the other half-finished sketches and incomplete projects which, from the time he'd come online, had always cluttered up his quarters. The yellow Autobot was plagued by visions of artistic sublimity – torturing inspirations forever dangling just out of reach of his ability to create them.

So he would punch things.

And a few days later, he'd be back in his room, scrabbling away in hopes of bringing to life some new dream.

Sideswipe never commented on the state of the yellow bot's quarters, or on the fact that not one of the plans which his batch-brother vaunted to him had ever come to fruition. For this, Sunstreaker would always be grateful. But otherwise, Sideswipe was no help. On occasion, he had offered to assist; but the he had no real interest in the work. And he always ended up breaking things. So more often than not, Sunstreaker would send him away with a curse.

On the day this whole crazy scheme had begun, the yellow mech remembered lying on his back, one leg hanging down over the edge of his berth and kicking at its side. He'd lifted a listless finger to twitch the spar of the lopsided mobile that dangled over his head, setting twenty or so tiny model flight craft dancing. Each was a marvel of design: every line and plane exquisite in its beauty. But none of them would ever fly. As he neared completion of each precious plan, Sunstreaker had inevitably found out, too late, that it defied the laws of physics in some fundamental way. The little tinkling mobile mocked him: a tangible reminder of his constant pursuit of the impossible.

He rose with a jerk. On a sudden impetuous impulse, he gathered up an arbitrary assortment of materials and threw himself from his stifling quarters. It was impossible. So why not? Leaving a trail of black tire marks in his wake, Sunstreaker sped away, and down into the secret heart of the planet.

He hadn't expected to find an enemy there before him.

Thundercracker had taken the Autobot's fist full in the face. To Sunstreaker's surprise, it seemed that the blue jet fought not to defend himself, but to protect the mish-mash of metal on the table behind him. And of course the harder he fought, the more determined Sunstreaker became to find out exactly what the Decepticon was protecting.

He'd fallen back, stunned, when he saw it.

And Thundercracker had sworn: a long, leaden litany of frustration and despair.

Wingmate of a fallen Air Commander, forgotten pawn of a reformed tyrant, Thundercracker was a mech forever wandering through his own life. He'd sworn an oath of loyalty to Megatron those many vorns ago, not because he believed in the Decepticon cause, but simply because it was _a cause_. He'd wanted someone else to give him a sense of purpose, because he knew he'd never find one on his own.

But now there was no Decepticon cause. There was no Autobot cause. Megatron claimed that there was a new Cybertronian cause; but the blue jet was slagged if he knew what that meant. He was worried, because ever since the Ceasefire, Command had seemed as directionless as Thundercracker had always been.

He wasn't sure what had given him the idea of trying to build a femme. It was impossible, so why bother? But if Thundercracker was going to strike out on his own, into the uncharted realms of personal choice, he figured he might as well start with something impossible. That way, he'd bear no burden of guilt when he failed.

Or so he told himself.

But this was _his_ project, and he'd see himself to the Smelter before he let a filthy Autobot trash it.

So he'd stood there, engines whining, while that over-revved yellow nuisance had stared down at his feeble workmanship. He'd watched the Autobot's jaw drop, and looked away, unwilling to see the flush of pity or disdain that he assumed would follow.

But then his optics lit upon the cargo Sunstreaker had dropped when he'd piled into him. Picking up a fallen datascreen, Thundercracker gaped in his turn as he slowly realized what he was seeing.

"I like this design," the blue jet said carefully, still turned away from the Autobot. "I hadn't thought of making a triple-changer."

Sunstreaker grunted noncommittally. He was running a finger along the curve of a lifeless limb. "You're pretty good at metalwork," he admitted grudgingly.

The two former enemies had exchanged a long, considering look.

And the Seeker had shrugged his shoulders, shoved a few things aside, and the Autobot had simply dumped his contributions onto the cleared table space.

* * *

The form they had made was by far the most beautiful thing that either of them had ever seen. It wasn't that either mech alone had the skill required to build something like this. But by some fluke, each seemed to have made a particular study in the areas where the other's knowledge failed. When a flaw appeared in the Autobot's designs, the Decepticon jet would suggest some little tweak, and it would work. When Thundercracker despaired of ever getting the metal shaped to specifications, Sunstreaker would show him one or two techniques he'd come up with as he'd wrestled with alloys in his cluttered quarters.

Each mech unconsciously put into this shell all the things he loved most about life and living. It was a ridiculously complex model: a triple-changer with both flight and automotive modes in blue and yellow and white. The mechs had built her sleek and fast, with more upgrades and detailing than any transformer would ever need. They didn't analyze why they did this. It didn't matter, since the shell would never be given spark.

The two mechs seldom spoke more than a few words to each other. Scribbling with stylus or pounding steel, the former enemies exchanged ideas in terse, succinct sentences. There was no hint of animosity, no shadow of mistrust. This work of theirs was the one realm in which there was no place for doubt. It was freedom. It was joy. It was escape.

But they'd never expected Megatron to show up and activate Vector Sigma for them.

* * *

"Huh- How?" stammered Thundercracker.

Megatron shrugged. "Apparently all that mumbo-jumbo about the link between the Matrix and our Dear Lord Primus wasn't just exhaust fumes," he replied.

"You're talking scrap," Sunstreaker broke in rudely. "If Prime could do this all along, why didn't he-"

"Because he couldn't do it _alone_," the big mech snapped. "Now are you two idiots going to ask a spark for this femme of yours, or not?"

_Femme of yours. _Thundercracker's gyros had always treated his soldiers like remote-controlled drones, assuming his instructions would be followed without question. But if Vector Sigma really could give spark to this shell he and Sunstreaker had made, then it would cease to belong to anyone. It was possible that her creators would never see her again.

She might even hate them. After all, they hadn't exactly given her the most utilitarian frame. He'd known those extra ailerons were superfluous, but they'd just looked so swashbuckling...

The blue Seeker tried to imagine this limp thing in his arms actually standing on its own; transforming, flying, _talking_. He longed to see it do so. To see what it – what _she_ – would be. But he was nervous. He glanced sideways at Sunstreaker, and wondered if the yellow Autobot was as uneasy as he was.

Sunstreaker gave him a wry shrug. "The worst she can do is slag our afts," he said.

Shoulder to hunched shoulder, the two mechs took a few hesitant steps forward. Placing it gently on the ground and arranging its limbs in what they could only hope was comfort, they presented the form they had created to the heart of Cybertron.

"Um, Vector Sigma?" the blue jet called. It was an inauspicious beginning, and he knew it. "We need you to give Spark to this femme. Please," he added, in afterthought.

"Give her the strength she'll need if she's gonna stand up to all the rest of us slaggers," Sunstreaker put in. "And show her how to enjoy the power in her engines. But please help her to forgive us for getting carried away..."

Gently, they laid the lovely shell upon the floor, and placed its limbs in what they hoped was comfort. The bronze globe above began to glow. A sound like an ultrasonic organ-chord shook the ground and rattled their joints. Light swelled to fill the chamber with a blinding brilliance. The lithe form rose a bit unsteadily to her feet, and turned to face the three astonished mechs.

"I'm Windchaser," she announced. "Who are you?"

* * *

"I see that you've been busy," Prime commented dryly. He greeted the newest femme of Cybertron with a solemn bow, complimented her designers on the workmanship of her form, and grinned at his bond brother; who was leaning against the wall of the chamber, trying not to look as if he'd fall over without it. Then, with the suggestion that her creators show the newling femme around her home, he shooed the trio of bots away.

When they had gone, he spoke to Megatron in an anxious undertone. "Any signs?"

"Besides that?" The Decepticon waved a weary hand toward the exit the three bots had just taken. "No. I asked our Security Detail to keep a close watch on the sky, but so far there's been no-"

"Did you tell them anything?" Prime interrupted hastily. "Did you tell them why?"

"I was too tired," shrugged Megatron. "I didn't want to deal with it."

Prime's mouth quirked. "I don't blame you." He shoved an arm around his brother's torso, and lifted the exhausted mech away from his supporting wall. "It's time to get you to a berth," he told him firmly. Then he added, "I'm sorry I couldn't get out here earlier."

"Lazy," huffed his lifelong rival, but with affection.

The two Commanders shuffled down the tunnel toward the nearest recharge unit. It wasn't nearly close enough.

"Nice work, by the way," said Prime as they went. "I wasn't expecting results so fast-"

"Wishing you'd turned over the world to me sooner?" the Decepticon quipped.

"I'm surprised you didn't make more of a production of it though," continued Optimus, ignoring him. "Doesn't seem your style to be so humble when introducing something as momentous as the wakening of Vector Sigma and the sparking of a new femme."

"I didn't have the energy for my usual monologue," the gray mech wheezed. He stumbled, catching at the red mech's arm. "You should have seen their faces, Prime," he whispered. "It was like..." His mouth quirked in an unaccustomed smile. "You should've seen it," he repeated. Then as the last word faded, the Decepticon Commander slumped to the floor, his power spent.

Prime knelt down beside him, and listened with some concern to the weary chugging of the big mech's engine. "I wish I could have seen it, Brother," he replied with a small smile. "I wish I could have seen _you_."

Occasional swearing, he hoisted the gray mech with gentle care into his arms. "Overbuilt lugnut-you're heavy as _slag,_" he complained, as he rose with a grunt and squeal of servos.

He listened for some kind of tart response from the big mech. But the Decepticon Commander had gone offline.

"Precious slagging scrap-pile," the red Prime muttered warmly.

He carried the Decepticon to a room at the end of a dim brown corridor, and dumped him as gently as he could onto the berth he found there. He connected all the fuel lines and booted up the charger. But before he left, Prime laid a hand on Megatron's dark head in blessing. "You did well today, my friend," he whispered. "Rest now."


	21. Act V scene ix

_**Scene ix**_

Optimus Prime brought Perceptor and his costly creation before Vector Sigma not three cycles after he'd dropped his Co-Commander into a recharge bunk. He wasn't sure what the supercomputer could do, but he had to ask. In fact, he pleaded. The gentle scientist had sacrificed so much in his attempt to give life to the beautiful shell he had made. It seemed only just that some form of recompense should be possible.

And Optimus was not disappointed. When Double-A introduced herself, she smiled knowingly at her maker. Whole in spark once more, Perceptor rose from the repair berth he had occupied since his disastrous experiment. He bumbled over to her on unsteady legs, and greeted his magnum opus with an unabashed hug.

The two of them were fairly inseparable after that. They seemed to need fewer words to communicate than others did. There were rumors; but Double-A insisted that she didn't need to consummate a bond with the Autobot scientist in order to be fulfilled. And Perceptor seemed perfectly content. Prime would often stop to look in on them, whenever he passed his Chief Science Officer's lab. Watching the wordless dance by the happy teacher and his willing assistant always brought a smile to his lips.

* * *

Scrapper at first resented the femme for whose sake he had endured a long and painful derma-restoration. He had begun her construction on a whim, wanting only to try something different from the usual war machines. He'd never given much consideration to the creation of an actual, living femme, and didn't see how she could possibly be worth the pain he had been through. So their very first exchange of words at the base of Vector Sigma had been rancorous.

But Thundervolt grew on him, if only because she commanded his respect. The first time she suggested – in language not calculated to spare his feelings – that one of his new city-plans was flawed, he came close to hitting her. But her observations had been sound. And she had a wicked underhand jab, to boot.

Soon Scrapper, to his own surprise, was grudgingly accepting her into his small, esoteric group of friends. They didn't see each other often; Thundervolt soon gravitated into the surveillance program, and tended to spend a lot of time offworld. She'd shown a knack for repairing the various types of satellite stations. But she and the gruff Constructicon would comm each other off and on throughout the cycles, trading little bits of news and bandying ideas.

* * *

And then there was Spangle. She sprang out of the efforts of a clandestine group of hopeful but less skillful engineers, and her genesis was never fully documented. The flashy femme leapt to the forefront of Cybertronian society, and garnered quite a reputation as an entrepreneur of social influence. Maccadam's had been the hub of Iacon for so long that no bot alive could imagine going anywhere else for a cube of high-grade at the end of a long shift. But Spangle went to Kaon, purchased an abandoned bunker on the lower arc, and somehow made it the place to which all of Cybertron flocked the moment they had a day free. Music had almost become a lost art among the warriors during the long course of the War; but it was more than rekindled now that Blaster and his motley crew of Cassettes mixed tunes there in the evenings, and Jazz himself made frequent guest appearances. Transformers of all factions flocked to hear the latest finds.

* * *

The next vorn saw the creation of more and more new femmes. The mechs greeted each one with an almost worshipful gratitude; but that wore off all too quickly, to be replaced by unease or even, occasionally, disappointment. It was taking time for everyone to adjust to the re-emergence of the third faction, and each femme felt a pressure to prove herself in some way. The newlings dealt with it as best they could.

Sadly, although Elita's cadre welcomed the recent arrivals into their sisterhood, there was a hint of friction between veterans and the newlings. The young femmes seemed always to be asking questions to which the senior femmes could not give satisfactory answers. The two generations exasperated each other with their stubbornly held assumptions.

But time passed; the introduction of a new femme stopped being a global event; and slowly, very slowly, the inhabitants of Cybertron began to look forward to what could be, rather than backward to what had been.

* * *

"This isn't going to work," Megatron proclaimed. "Even the dullest of them will see we're planning a full-scale evacuation." The Co-Commanders had ordered the cancellation of all reconstruction projects, and started instead on a massive ship-building effort. It would not be safe to remain on Cybertron once Unicron came, no matter what the outcome of the battle of the gods might be.

Optimus sighed. Sometimes he wondered why they didn't just replay the recording of last week's argument, and save energy. "We've let the more dependable mechs in on what's really going on. They're all doing their best to help... _direct_ the rumors."

"We could tell them the truth."

Prime stopped where he was, his finger frozen on a single line of the long list he'd been scanning. He stared off into the distance in silence for two kliks. Then with a snap, he pulled himself back into the present, and shook his head. "No," he said sadly. "But you have no idea how much I wish I thought as you do."

"You of all mechs should believe in them."

"You think I don't know that?" returned Prime hotly. The red mech bent his head over his list. Primus, there was so much to be done! "We've just asked them to end a war. We're pushing the limits of their tolerance enough as it is. Announcing to everyone that Unicron is probably on his way here right now would be more than a wrench thrown into the works. It'd be more like an explosive charge."

"Especially if they found out we were the ones who invited him. Yeah, I know. We've been over this," said Megatron sourly. "I just don't like all this subterfuge, that's all." He glanced over at Prime. "And Pit knows you don't either," he added.

"Nevertheless, this is the way it must be," said Prime.

He hoped he was right. This was an awfully big gamble.

* * *

Red Alert resisted awkward efforts by his friends to give him comfort. Silent and aloof, he still refused to let them earn his trust. Fleeing the emptiness that Inferno's death had left inside of him, he threw himself into the task of revamping the security of Cybertron. It was as good a distraction as any.

He bullied a cobbled-together team of engineers into building a whole new sensor array, which would complement the global network, but focus on the skies. He wasn't ignoring the surveillance of the planet; on surface and sub-levels his cameras recorded every move of Cybertron's shifting population. The white and red speedster now ran two systems instead of one. And he was grateful for the work. Work dulled the ache in his halved spark.

He kept an always-overflowing docket of data needing his analysis. He referenced and cross-checked till he was within a klik of stasis-lock; and then fell into his berth, grateful for the instant, dreamless shutdown that was brought on by exhaustion. But not even Red Alert was certain what Command had to fear from the lifeless void.

Huffer complained to Optimus Prime about the waste of resources. He'd thought it was an ironclad argument. But the Autobot Commander had been unexpectedly insistent. In fact, to Huffer's horror, he gave endorsement to his Security Officer for even further augmentation of the network.

So Red Alert ordered up his telescopes, his satellites, and his orbital stations, and force-drafted teams to run them. Among lay-mechs this job was thought to be a punishment for unspecified crimes. Even a bot's closest friends might tease him when his turn came for the dreaded "Stare At Nothing For Ten Orns" assignment. But Command was adamant. _The lives of all depend on you_, they said; and the bots they led repeated it among themselves as a sarcastic catchphrase.

* * *

"Any Word?"

Somehow, Optimus could hear the capital letter in Megatron's voice. He shook his head in irritation. "Nothing."

"But you're the one with the sparkly Oracle in your chest-!" The Decepticon's impatience could still overrule his common sense.

Optimus pounded a fist onto his desk and turned to face his bond-brother. "Nothing, Megatron. No 'Word.' No 'Sign.' No 'Portents.' Nothing. He's shut himself into his fortress, and he isn't talking. Don't you think I'd let you know the instant that he did?"

The gray mech chuffed, but made no other reply. Instead, he paced to the end of the room, and turned. "The Predecons – what's left of them – have been getting edgy lately. Dangerously edgy. I've turned a blind eye to their 'acquisitions,' even let them have their own shuttle – it was a small one, but they were more than willing to accept it since it's one of the cargo ships we've stocked up with supplies. I just hope that they don't run off with it all and leave us all behind." He sighed, and rubbed a hand across his face. "But I wouldn't put it past them," he declared.

"If they defect, then others will soon follow them. We'll lose hundreds." Optimus also scrubbed a hand across his face. They'd all been working frantically for nearly two vorns, and the strain was showing. Each nanoklik that passed increased Prime's fear that they'd be too slow. But now the ships were nearly all built, and supplies were mostly allocated and stored within them; and everything was... well, everything was _mostly_.

He slumped back in his chair. "We're nearly ready, if it comes to the endgame," he said. "I was worried we wouldn't have even this much time. Be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. But we've still got to keep them _engaged_. The troubles only get out of control when there's not enough to keep everyone busy."

"We could begin by doing what we told them we would do, back when we started this," suggested Megatron with conscious sarcasm.

"Fulfill our campaign promises, you mean?" Optimus replied, as a grin ghosted over his tired face.

Megatron shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt, eh?"

"You realize it'd be mostly wasted labor," Prime said quietly. "Not much of what we do here can survive if... When _he_ comes."

"No." Megatron stalked over, and dropped a hand on Prime's shoulder. "Think of it as a dry-run, then, for when we have a new planet to format," he said quietly.

Optimus leaned into the big mech for just a moment, grateful for his solid presence. His bond-family had become his lifeline, as time pressed ever more heavily upon him. "You're a nut-job; you know that, right?" he said affectionately.

"I'm saner than you are," the big mech retorted. He stared down at the mountain of data covering Prime's desk, and gave an internal shudder. With a few brisk snatches, he gathered the mess into a single, squared-off pile. Then he hauled on the Autobot's red arm. "Off you go," he declared. "You're through for the day. And don't try to wriggle out of it. Go for a drive with Elita, or something. She's been making ship assignments all this orn, and could use a rest too."

"But what about-?"

"Go on. You know me, Prime. I live to order bots around. It's better than high-grade."

* * *

The cycles passed, and still no terror came hurling down upon them from the sky. Red Alert's array scanned the heavens unceasingly, and saw nothing but nebulae and stars. A supernova in the next galaxy caused some mild excitement, but resulted in nothing more threatening than a brief period of heightened radiation and a few pretty pictures.

The space fleet was completed, even to Optimus's exacting specifications. The bots rebuilt Altihex and Kaon, and moved to modernize the old highway system. Gradually, as the transformers settled into the routines of peacetime and new protocols overwrote the old ones, Cybertron began to thrive. The engineers were in the last phase of completion of a new Crystal City, when Unicron finally came.

* * *

Onslaught and Swindle were up in Red Alert's fourth offworld observation satellite, doing their obligatory Ten Orns of Staring At Nothing, when with terrifying suddenness, every single monitor in the station was filled with a massive dull-orange _Something_. A planetoid the size of their own world had materialized a mere 4,000 astrometers away.

Onslaught avoided Swindle's startled, but still calculating glance, and slammed a fist through the cover of the emergency alarm switch. Across the globe, a hundred thousand klaxons began to scream.

* * *

"Get up, my nemesis," Prime called out urgently. "He's here."

The alarm had jerked the Decepticon out of recharge, but he was still woozy from the emergency reboot. Optimus ripped the charge cords free, while his bond-brother swatted dazedly at them and only succeeded in entangling his arms.

"Get to the ship," commanded Prime. "And remember all that Mighty Megatron stuff. Now, more than ever, the two of us have got to show our strength."

* * *

Command had drilled them all in this. Drop what you're doing. Run to the nearest ship. Take off and get clear of the planet. Form ranks and wait for further orders. Before, the drills had seemed a puerile waste of time. Now a single glance up at the mottled orange metal filling half the sky was more than enough to hasten every last bot into the waiting shuttles.

* * *

Hoping desperately not to draw the great Unmaker's attention, Prime gave the order to blast off. A hundred vessels lifted from the doomed surface of Cybertron.

But Unicron took no notice of the tiny craft. They weren't what he was here for. He was here because his Brother had summoned him. The Creator had offered the Destroyer a surrender; and these tiny buzzing morsels were as nothing when compared with the longed-for feast before him. They would provide a tasty snack, perhaps, after he'd consumed their planet.

Each shuttle was piloted by a hand-picked captain, bots known to Prime and Megatron to be cool-headed in a crisis. But even so, communication channels all were jammed with frantic hails. Ships collided with each other in the chaos, as the bots inside them all but climbed the walls in panic.

Then the loudspeakers in every vessel rang out with a single, pre-recorded message:

_Attention, transformers of Cybertron! There is still another player in this game. All is not lost! Form up behind your leaders, and await further instructions._

The careening shuttles slewed around, slowing their heedless flight. Moving to keep their home-world between themselves and the unimaginable menace of the Destroyer, they assembled at the side of their Commanders.

A thousand anxious optics watched in impotent dismay as the gigantic orange planet slowly started to unfold. With ponderous ease, the Enemy _transformed._

* * *

Unicron was a myth, a legend out of the forgotten past, a shadow-file that was more a byword now than an accepted fact. The Archives held a few outmoded datatracks and scattered bits of texts, but their meanings were wide open to interpretation. More often than not, the bots who studied those diabolic records were only seeking words of prophesy they could take to bolster their own agendas. A few had tried to harness the Unmaker's power for themselves, and made their marks on history – mostly in splashes of their life's last energon across the nearest wall – but the dark sciences were the provenance of kooks and quacks, not real scholars. It was acknowledged, technically, that Unicron existed – somewhere very far away from here, and not, perhaps, in this dimension. A corporeal Destroyer was just not something that the average bot could believe in, day to day.

But by virtue of his office, Optimus had had direct dealings with his Creator. And one could not know Primus without also coming to know his Opposite, if only in terms of a photo-negative. Prime believed. From his days down in the Archives, he had believed.

And Megatron, who'd felt the dark's destructive power working within himself, had acknowledged its reality long before he'd bonded with the Prime. The Commanders understood what was at stake.

But now, they watched in fear, every bit as anxious as their followers were. Everything they hoped for depended now on whether Primus had the courage to make the ultimate sacrifice.

The great Destroyer opened his eternally-hungry maw, and spoke.

"_We meet again, Brother."_ The deep, dark voice ground out across the emptiness of space; and every inhabitant of Cybertron shuddered as they heard. For it was not bounded by the physics of sound, but spoke instead within the unlocked sanctuary of their own minds. _"At last you've found the courage to face your doom," _it said. _"Now come on out and fight."_

Slowly, with a splintering of carefully-constructed precincts, Cybertron revealed its hidden life. Broken bits of roadway and of skyscraper spun lazily away from him into space; and bots who'd used the name of Primus primarily as a swear-word watched the Creator-God unfold to face his mirror-self.

Some scattered cheers went up within the watching ships. Sure, this great horror out of myth could crush the mightiest among them between his fingers. But Primus would protect them; would not allow this fiend to devour his children. Primus would fight for them, they consoled themselves; and then that orange Evil had just better watch its backside, that was all. They stared, fists clenched in feverish anticipation, and waited for the starting blow to fall.

"_I will not fight you."_ The Voice was as familiar to its children as the surging of their own pumps. _"I summoned you here to accept my unconditional surrender."_

Now there was pandemonium in the ships. For even as the traitorous words of their Creator echoed in their disbelieving audials, the mid-rank mechs and femmes of Cybertron were discovering that their vessels had not been equipped with weapons arrays. This probably saved the Commanders, for there were more than a few bots who would have willingly blown their deluded leaders out of the sky just then. "They've sold us out!" they shrieked, as the lieutenants on each shuttle pleaded for calm.

The thunderous voice of the Destroyer brought a sudden end to mutinous cries. _"You will fight,"_ he growled at the still white form before him. _"You will struggle, you will beg, and you will be consumed. Everything must be devoured before the end," _the Unmaker said coldly._ "Even you, my Brother."_

And with that, he spread great skeletal wings of flickering fire, and lunged at the Creator.

No bot there ever forgot that sight. Nor did they forget the dreadful lurch within their very sparks, as the Force who'd given them their being was grasped in that first terrible embrace. The light-filled Friend on whom, unwittingly, they'd made their lives floated rigidly before them. The great lord Primus did not yield; yet he refused to defend himself against the evil onslaught that was tearing into him.

The Dark One's howl of rage and triumph tore across the sky.

And a tiny, fearful Voice spoke within the sparks of Optimus, Elita, and Megatron. _"I don't know if I can do this,"_ it quavered. _"What if- How can I-"_

Optimus glanced across at Megatron, and took the gray mech's hand in a crushing, unbreakable grip.

"_I don't know if I have the strength,"_ the small Voice whispered. _"It-"_ There was a scream that tore the spark of every mech alive, as a hideous clawed hand ripped into the Creator's colossal chest. _"It __hurts__!"_ the Voice cried silently.

"Optimus." Elita had stood by him through all of this, silent with determination; but her optics were wide with reflected pain.

His arm tightened swiftly around her shoulders. "What can we do to help him, dearest?" he asked.

"In the past, you've opened the Matrix so that its influence could cleanse our people from darkness," she hissed quickly. "What if it could work the other way around?"

"Of course! We have to try!"

Prime pressed Elita to him in a hasty, tense embrace. Then he scrambled for the exit, and leaped out into black space. His two bondmates followed him, only a nanoklik behind. The Autobot Commander lifted out the Matrix of Leadership from its place within his chest, threaded his fingers through its sides, and pulled. From its depths, the wavering light of a God in agony fell across his face. Optimus raised it up before him, and called out in a loud voice that was transmitted to every ship of Cybertron. He hoped they would understand.

"Our Creator has done all within his power to protect us from the Destroyer," he cried. "Now, my friends, it is our turn. If we wish him to save us, we must first save him. He needs our strength, our belief, our love, in order to resist the temptation to give in."

As Optimus Prime held the shining Matrix high, he felt a soft, light touch upon his right hand. Elita was there, her hand on his. And on his left, Megatron also placed his dark fingers around Prime's. Together, they held the quivering crystal aloft. Together, they bared their own sparks to the darkness, and strove with all their might to shore up the fading glory of their Creator with their own light.

One by one, the transformers of Cybertron followed suit. They left the safety of their ships, unlatched the armor of their sparks, and opened their souls to fight against the Darkness. Prime wasn't sure how it was working. But he could see a hundred lines of luminescence streaming into the shuddering Matrix all around him, with more joining them each moment. And best of all, he saw the face of his Creator harden with renewed determination.

With the seeming slowness of immensity, the being they had known as Primus turned his great head from his enemy, to look into the optics of all his arrayed children. "_I thank you for your faith in me," _he told them. _"Perhaps, this was the task for which you were created so long ago."_

Light sang. It arced and danced in shining lines of hope that wove across the sky. The crystal heart within the Matrix caught and focused every beam, until the artifact blazed white.

Its surface burned his fingers, and it shook so hard that Prime could barely hold it. Then with a blast that blinded bots who saw it, the Matrix of the Primes exploded in a flash of light. As Optimus stared in shock down at his empty hands, Primus locked his arms behind his Brother's back, and wrapped himself around his doom.

Unicron screamed. He strained against the grip of Primus as if the other's closeness burned him. There were gasps from half-blind watchers as the Destroyer tore at tender linkages and giant joints popped loose. But the Creator's grip was deathless. He did not move; not even as the great Destroyer's teeth bit into him, as gray claws ripped into his back, or as the dark voice raged. Black smoke began to pour out of the Unmaker's howling mouth. Green fire burned between the plates of his vast armor. But he could not escape; and in united agony, the two Great Beings began to melt together.

* * *

It seemed an age and then an age before the two gods ceased their struggle. But the Children of Primus stayed with their Maker to the last. In the end, all that remained of the two deities was a charred and mottled globe formed from their lifeless, mangled bodies.

* * *

It was a long and weary time before anyone could bear to touch down upon the surface of the blackened thing below. It was well that Prime and Megatron had insisted on provisioning the vessels so thoroughly. At last, with heavy heart, Jetfire agreed to lead the first expedition to the place, to seek in hope and trepidation for any spark of life.

Memories played across his processor, of half-comprehended encounters with something his determinedly un-mystical programming had always refused to accept or comprehend. It had been there always, beneath his feet; and he had never tried to uncover its mysteries. And now he never would. Both Powers now were nothing but a massive lump of metal.

Or so he had assumed.

But as Jetfire made his way through twisting, mapless passageways down to the planet's heart, he found it was a thriving, pulsing core of living fire. Beside the new world's soul, powered in fact by that glowing Source, was what looked an awful lot like a chamber of creation. The tall white mech gaped up in awe, and swore beneath his mask.

The exploration team stayed ground-bound for a quartex or two, taking readings, testing systems, experimenting. When he was as satisfied as he could ever be, Jetfire traveled back to the command ship, and made his report to his leaders.

There was a habitable world down there, he told them, twice as big now as the Cybertron they'd known. It was in great need of repair, and would not support them in much comfort for many vorns yet. But it was rich with energy. Lines throughout the whole place flowed with a clear energon, the like of which he'd never seen before. This fuel was both more potent and ran cleaner than the old energon had ever done.

"I know it looks a mess," he said. Jetfire shrugged helplessly as he tried to put his unfamiliar feelings into words. "But it's waiting for us, Sir. It wants us to come home."

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

In the silence of deep space, the Crypt of Honor floated as it always had. Not every bot whose spark extinguished desired to be placed here. Often, they left requests that their shells be used in the building-up of favorite cities, or, lately, the creation of new life. But Megatron had asked that his first and second lieutenants be placed here. He hadn't yet been willing to let them go.

His feet clumped heavily along the empty corridors, following a too-familiar trail. He'd come here many times over the last few vorns, returning in penance, in regret for what could not now be, and in vague hope that the two mechs whose memorials he came to see might hear him in some way.

He stopped first at Soundwave's unadorned vault, and scanned the plaque as he had a hundred times before. It was blank, because no one yet had been able to compose a fitting epitaph for the enigmatic spy. In life, the dark blue Decepticon had amassed a hoard of secrets that would have bowed the world with its weight. But he had taken every one of those secrets with him into the All-Spark. Megatron wondered, as he always did, what quiet mayhem Soundwave and his dead Cassettes were causing over there.

He'd never managed to compute the concept of a universal All-Spark, a place where all indeed were one, and singular identity was an illusion. Prime had told him it was something like that; and smelt him, the big red lug would know. But Megatron liked nonetheless to imagine his lieutenants making a holy slagheap of the place.

"I wish that you could be here now," he whispered. No one would over hear him doing anything so silly as speaking to the dead. But still, he whispered, as he hunkered uneasily over the vault. "I wish you could see it." He owed his sanity, his family, and the Ceasefire all to Soundwave, he knew well. And yet somehow he'd never found the words to say just what he felt. So, as always, he settled for a simple, "I'm sorry that it had to be this way. But thank you."

The Decepticon Commander touched the glassed-in case that held the shell of the stolid mech whom he had known and trusted better than anyone before Prime; the mech who had also known him, in a way few others ever had. He hoped, as he always did, that Soundwave was being given a glimpse of what his death had wrought. He wasn't certain the blue mech would approve. But he liked to think that Soundwave could have found a niche in peacetime – probably, he smirked, as a black-market profiteer. He gave the vault a farewell pat, and left to make his second stop.

Unlike the quiet telepath, Starscream had left detailed instructions regarding the design and placement of his crypt. He had commissioned a resting place next to an outer wall, and had demanded that a window be installed so that, even in death, he might gaze out into the firmament. And he had chosen an ancient vault design of sumptuous, extravagant complexity.

The plaque, however, was by law left to the living to compose. Megatron had stewed for orns about what to write on it, and had carved the letters himself. Now, beneath the Air Commander's empty shell, the black slab read simply,

_Seeker of power,  
Seeker of knowledge,  
Seeker of renown,_

_May the winds of eternity  
__bear up your wings,_

_Until you at last find peace._

Megatron still wasn't certain it was right. But he'd done the best he could. There were no words that could convey his complicated feelings toward his most dedicated, yet most traitorous Seeker. No words he was willing to put up on a plaque, at any rate.

"I hope you're doing ok," he said numbly. "We're all fine here, I guess. Elita, Prime, and I are working on a new mech shell. Prime said he thought there were enough femmes to keep us all hopping for a little while, and he wanted to see what the next generation of mechs would be like before he conks out. I don't think it'll be any time soon for any of us... But we know it'll come, sooner or later." He sighed. "Then I suppose you can scream at me again, and tell me I did it all wrong. But Starscream, I really don't think we could have asked for a better outcome than this."

Megatron allowed his gaze to wander to the window, and he stared out silently at the passing stars for several moments. "There's a newling femme who seems to think there might be something in me worth pursuing. I personally think she's probably got a virus in her CPU. But Elita likes her. And Optimus keeps throwing us together." He shrugged his shoulders. "We'll see."

The gray mech pressed a hand to the glass that covered the still, dark figure within. He'd repaired the hole his cannon had left through the middle of his second-in-command. But the welds were still visible, and always would be. He'd never be able to make amends for all he'd done to Starscream. But the lifeless face within the crypt now held a preternatural peace, a calm it had never shown in life. And this small sign was one which Megatron secretly treasured.

He leaned down over the dark vault, and whispered a few inaudible words to his fallen Seeker, words he gladly would have died rather than reveal to another living soul. Then he straightened, squared his shoulders, and headed back to the new Cybertron. Back to his world.

His, at least, for a little while.

"Ops?" he called into his comm-link. "Brother, I'm coming home."

* * *

**A/N:** To all my readers: Thank you, thank you, thank you! This has been my labor of great love, but it's so much better when it's shared. I value the time you've taken to read it all.

And yes; I'm here to ask if you'd read just a bit more... Please don't forget to check out "Entr'acte." It is vital to the understanding and completion of this world.

Again, thank you so very much for reading.

-Prime out.


End file.
